


Monster

by MinaAndChao



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, EVERYONE - Freeform, Everyone gets called out, Explorations of war morality, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:50:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinaAndChao/pseuds/MinaAndChao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon Divergence.  In the Department of Mysteries, Harry is hit with a killing curse.  It did not kill him, but it did change him - specifically his magic.  Deadly to the touch, except to those used to Dark magic, Harry must adapt to the sudden changes in his life.  Unfortunately, the company he is forced to keep doesn't make it easy.</p><p>On a short hiatus due to university.  Will resume on the first Friday in September.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Walls Kept Tumbling Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to address something quickly: We will be working on this instead of continuing Cunning and Ambition. That fic has been dead for years, and we've determined that it cannot be resurrected. If you liked the way CAA addressed issues that were glossed over in the canon, and the characterization of some Slytherins, like Pansy, Blaise and Millicent, I hope you will enjoy this fic.

This summer had been one of the freest Harry could remember.  There had been few attempts to stop him from coming and going as he pleased, or from sneaking down to the kitchen for a bite to eat.  Most of all, the looming threat of the Dursleys’ was mostly gone.  Dudley hadn’t tried to corner him, Petunia had spent very little time screaming at him, and Vernon had mostly let him be.

In a perfect world, that would have been because the Order’s threats at the end of the summer had gotten to the Dursley’s.  Or, in a perfect world, it would have been this way from the beginning.

Instead, it was because the Dursleys were sick.

That had struck Harry as immediately odd.  Uncle Vernon had caught a handful of nasty illnesses since Harry’s childhood, and had spent those times bellowing through the house for Petunia to fetch this or run out to the store to get that and you’re making sure the boy is holding up his fair share of the work, aren’t you?  But, as long as he could remember, neither Petunia nor Dudley had ever gotten truly sick.  A sniffle or two, maybe.  Nothing serious, though Dudley had gleefully used any excuse to miss school.  But no matter what was going around, they seemed immune. 

Harry had never gotten sick as well.  Perhaps he’d had similar symptoms to his aunt and cousin, but he couldn’t seem to think of any.  If he had, whining about it would have gotten him assigned more chores and meant no dinner that night, so if he had he’d ignored them.

Which meant the family immunity was likely do to some magical intervention.  Petunia and Dudley had the benefits without the actual abilities.  Of course, no one on Privet Drive wanted to say that.  Instead, Uncle Vernon had loved to boast about what good, strong genes Dudley had.   

Now it had failed.  Utterly.  Even Dudley spent most of his time asleep these days, though at the beginning his complaints and demands had been nonstop.  With Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon both sick as well, Harry had been forced to care for them as well as he could.  He walked to the local store, got groceries, made soup, cleaned up all the nasty tissues, and took over the chores he was used to doing.  The house could run under Harry’s supervision.  Without Aunt Petunia over his shoulder and with more food in his stomach, it probably looked even better.

But none of the Dursleys seemed to improve.  If anything, all three were getting worse.  Harry had no idea what they could have.  And neither did the doctor they’d finally dragged themselves too.  He’d heard Uncle Vernon yelling - as much as he could with such a hoarse voice - complaining about quacks who couldn’t even do their job properly, and what the hell did they pay those bastards for?

He hadn’t stopped there.  Instead, he’d spent the whole trek up the stairs complaining about how it was all very strange and the boy had been looking suspicious lately, hadn’t he?  Of course, Uncle Vernon always said things like that.  It had been his first thought when all three of them originally got sick.  That Harry’s unnaturalness had been the reason.  But it had been half-hearted at best, and interrupted by his constant coughing.  At this point, it was just habit to blame Harry being a freak and then move on to actually fix it.  The telly broke?  Must have been the freak, better get a new one.  Stock market went down?  Those freaks probably had to have something to do with it.

This had been different, though.  Vernon had said it with dawning horror.

Harry didn’t think that tone boded well for him.

So, though his summer had been free until recently, Harry was locked up of his own volition.  The Dursleys had finally shelled out for a nurse who would come over once or twice a day and make sure they weren’t getting worse and try and make them eat and drink, because Harry had began utterly failing at that.

And the nurse was there to make sure they wouldn’t die.  Which had become a sudden and startlingly real prospect.

It made Harry feel sick.  Maybe he should have felt relieved or vindictive.  After all, they’d been nothing short of awful, and there was a small part of him that felt like this could be what they’d deserved.  But he couldn’t really bring himself to feel that way.  Not after what happened in the Department of Mysteries.

Those were the thoughts Harry was trying to avoid in his room as he wrote his note for the Order.  (Once every three days, Harry, don’t forget.  As if he could, when there was so little for him here.)  For once, his summer homework was coming along well, neater than normal and better researched.  Part of that was not having to sneak it, and the rest was that he appreciated the distraction.  He could work on perfecting his essays into the night, and then he’d be so tired that he might not dream anymore.

Half his dreams were of Sirius.  Half were of earlier in the Department of Mysteries, with one of the Death Eaters pointing his wand at Harry, the Killing Curse on his lips and green on the tip of his wand.  The former were infinitely worse, but the latter woke him up with his heart pounding and an odd feeling in his stomach.  And, really, the curse hadn’t hit him.  Why did it panic him so much? 

Maybe it was just the way death seemed so determined to follow him.

Shaking his head, Harry focused on the letter again.  Things were fine, Dursleys were still sick, wish I could leave and come to you.  Same as always.  He probably wouldn’t even get a reply.  Once in a while he did, with letters from Ron, Hermione and Ginny bundled in, but rarely.  It seemed the Order found it a risk. 

Deciding that was fine, Harry moved over to the window.  Hedwig had taken to spending her time outside on the branches of the old tree, which Harry could sympathize with.  If he’d spent his summers locked in a cage - and he had - Harry would be eager to avoid it when he could.  But when Harry reached to attach the letter to her leg, Hedwig gave an aggravated hoot and hopped away like he’d made a grab at her, just as she had all summer long. 

“Hedwig,” he sighed, curling his hand back.  “Come on, girl, it’s just me.”  The owl eyed him, and Harry had the distinct impression she was unimpressed.  After a second of their tiny staring contest, Hedwig ruffled her feathers until she was nearly double her size, snapped the letter up in her beak, and flew off before he could touch her. 

Harry sighed and turned away from the window.  It was silly to feel hurt.  Hedwig wasn’t trying to hurt his feelings.  He just wished he knew why she was so wary of him.  Hermione had suggested, in one of her few letters, that she was afraid he’d lock her up again, but Harry had his doubts.  Hedwig had never had problems with that before.  Maybe she’d lost her trust in him.

Hedwig wouldn’t be the only one.  Harry had lost some of his trust in himself.  Instead, it had been replaced with a dark, heavy lump in his stomach labeled ‘Sirius’.

Thinking of Hermione’s letters reminded him that all his mail was tucked in the space under the broken floorboard, so Harry pulled them out.  The paper was all wrinkled and soft by now, but the ink was still clear.

Harry settled down on his bed, pulled open the first letter and began to read.

*** 

Days seemed to pass in a fog of routine now.  The lack of human contact, even from the Dursleys, was starting to itch at Harry.  He sent out letters en masse, and attempted to be civil with the home care nurse, but it wasn’t enough.  Maybe there was some truth in his uncle’s paranoia because he felt off.  Hermione said it was a common sign of grief to feel detached and heavy, at least according to the research she’d done, so Harry found a small amount of comfort in that thought.  Maybe it was just the way he was seeing things?  The Dursleys would get better eventually, and then he’d be back at Hogwarts, and he’d go back to feeling normal.

The odd sense that something was wrong had to be the way he was looking at things.  He’d been so on edge and sleeping so poorly.  He was just letting Uncle Vernon get to him.

The realization gave Harry a sense of renewed vigor and he went about his work with a bit more of a positive approach.  He’d been all but banned from making the Dursleys their food now, due to their fear of his contaminating it, so he simply washed dishes while the nurse, Kathy, made a stew.  She was a nice woman in her forties, and she actually treated him like a decent human being.  Said he had a ‘hell of an immune system’, which he just brushed it off and claimed maybe he’d gotten the bug before.  She nodded and spooned out three bowls of stew, setting the extra aside for Harry with a wink.  He laughed and watched her go, finishing up with the pots and leaned against the counter to eat the leftovers.  He heard the muffled dealings of her and Dudley over his head.  

_“You need to eat the vegetables, dear, they’re going to make you all better.”_

_“I don’t want to eat bloody carrots and peas!  Leave me alone!”_

A similar conversation seemed to go over with his uncle, except with far more profanities and a good bout of ‘this is all due to the boy’ and ‘now, now, Mr. Dursley, your nephew’s lucky is all, one more spoonful, please’.  

Once she returned, Harry had set aside a drink for her and made quick work of the dirty dishes.  She drank her tea and bade him a good night and waved as she walked out the door.  Harry watched her climb into her car and drive off through the curtain with a small smile.  She had the attentiveness and cheeriness he’d always imagined nurses and doctors having.  It was nice to know that people like her were out in the Muggle world as well.

Making his way up the stairs, Harry bit back a groan when the door to his aunt and uncle’s room creak open as he passed.  Harry attempted the most pleasant face he could manage and faced his uncle, who was leaning heavily on the door frame.  He looked a sight.  His skin was pallid and seemed damp, his breathing, which had always been reedy, seemed like a struggle.  Harry did his best to keep the shock and disgust from showing on his face, but he was pretty sure he failed.

“Boy,” Vernon rasped out, his eyes narrowing and glistening in the low light, “what have you been doing?”

“The… the dishes?”  

A muscle in Vernon’s face twitched, making his mustache jump.  He let out a noise that could have been intimidating at one point in time.  “Don’t be smart.  You know what I mean!  What have you been doing to us.”  He wobbled as he gestured widely and Harry caught sight of his aunt Petunia over his shoulder, wringing her hands and dabbing at her nose.  

“Nothing, I swear!  I can’t do anything outside of school, you’ve seen the letters!  You know I can’t.  This isn’t my fault!”

A heavy cough racked Vernon’s body and Petunia thumped him hard on the back a few times as he sucked in breaths, sounding like they were coming through a wet, collapsed straw.  Vernon’s eyes darted to the side as the door to Dudley’s room opened, his cousin no doubt drawn in by the noise, and Harry followed his line of sight.  Dudley looked like he’d dropped a size, his hair was hung limp in his face and he was pink-faced in a way that indicated fever.  

“You’ve found a way.  You seem the type.  We let you into our house, kept you fed and clothed and _this_ is how you repay us?”

Irritation ran through Harry, the words striking a nerve that was still tender and exposed after so long.  One he was sure had rotted and fallen off.  His mouth twisted up and his hands clenched into fists.  “Repay you?  For what?  Your scraps?”  His eyes narrowed as he looked at his uncle.  “For the barest minimum of care?  Even if I could do something, even if I was doing something, do you really think I’d stop just because you asked nicely?  Like I used to?”

A weak roar left Vernon and he lurched forward, lumbering on his feet, stopping short barely a touch away from Harry, glowering down at him.  “We didn’t throw you out!  Things could have been much worse for you, boy.  Now stop with this freakish nonsense and leave us be!”

Harry stood firm, eyes hard as he glared back, squaring his jaw.  “I told you, I didn’t do anything!  Maybe if you’re so concerned with all of this, with me, you should contact Dumbledore.”

The slap was a surprise, making Harry see stars.  Behind his eyes, he swore he could see green.  He flexed his jaw and rose a hand to his cheek, belatedly hearing the squeak of shock from his aunt.  When he looked back over, Petunia was ashen and her hands knotted together, eyes fixed firmly to the floor.  Harry looked down and took a step back in shock.  Vernon was crumpled, face down, in the carpet.  

“What did you _do_?”

Harry opened his mouth, looking over at Dudley, who watched at him with wide eyes.  Harry shook his head, looking back to the floor and then swallowed, feeling sick.  “I didn’t do anything.  I…”  He sucked in a breath, panic rising inside of him.  He recognized that particular kind of unnatural stillness.

Vernon Dursley was dead.


	2. To Stay Here Would Be Misery

The sound of blood pulsed in his ears and the world felt like it was teetering back and forth.  Uncle Vernon was dead?  Surely if it had been him the Ministry would have done _something_ by now.  Right?

       “Get out!”  

       The screech startled Harry back into reality.  He blinked rapidly, looking around dazedly as everything slammed back into him.  Petunia was draped over Vernon’s bulk as Dudley dragged the phone on its long cord from his room, no doubt speaking with 999.  

       “What?  I can’t just leave, Dumbl--”

       “I don’t care what that coot said!  Get out of here!  You’re not welcome!  You aren’t wanted!  You’re not my nephew, I disown you!  This house isn’t yours!  All of it!  Just _leave_.”

        Suddenly, the house seemed to _buck_.  Dudley let out a shriek into the phone and Petunia just clutched harder, still glaring at Harry.  Once it had settled, Harry could feel something off.  Wrong.  Missing.

       It only took a moment for his brain to supply what, even through the fog of shock.

       The wards had fallen. 

       Harry bolted past Petunia and Vernon (Vernon’s corpse) to his room, grabbing everything he could and shoving it haphazardly into his trunk.  He checked to make sure his broom, invisibility cloak and photo album were safely stashed, and grabbed his wand, holding it in a tight-knuckled grip.  When he walked back out, Petunia screamed at the sight of it, and Dudley, who must have finished his call, flinched away.  “Get back to your rooms.”

       “Are you threatening us?”  Petunia shrieked, eyes bright and vicious.  “Going to kill us too?”

       “I didn’t kill anyone!”  Harry replied.  He had to swallow past the lump in his throat.  He hadn’t.  He _hadn’t._  There was some kind of mistake, because he hadn’t done anything.  “But the wards went down, and the Death Eaters will be here any second, so get in your rooms.”

       Petunia didn’t listen to him.  She turned her head away, shoulders set, and went back to clutching Vernon’s face.  But Dudley watched him more seriously, and Harry would have bet gallons to knuts he was thinking of the Dementors.  

       Before he could ask, or Harry could think of anything to do about Uncle Vernon (or think at all), there was a commotion downstairs.  Within a few seconds, there were footsteps coming up the steps and Harry moved in front of his relatives, wand at the ready and body tensed.

        In a way, he was almost relieved.  If he was throwing curses, he didn’t have to think about the way Uncle Vernon was lying dead behind him.

        But it wasn't a Death Eater.  Tonks moved into his line of sight, her own wand out and now dark blue hair cropped close in obvious battle readiness.  She trained her wand on Harry and relaxed slightly, though it didn’t waver.  “Wotcher, Harry.  What color was my hair last time we did this?”

        “Pink,” Harry replied, then frowned.  “No, purple.  You changed it to pink.”  She smiled and started to drop her wand.  He didn’t.  “What did you used to do at the table?”

        Tonks offered a wide grin and turned her nose into a pig’s snout.  Dudley gave a shocked murmur behind him, but he was ignored.  Nodding, Harry dropped his own wand and stepped back.  “Do you know healing?”

        That made Tonks frown.  She glanced behind him, and her face went pale at the sight of Uncle Vernon.  “ _Bugger_.  I know a bit.  Let me see him.”  She rushed forward and Harry moved out of the way, but Petunia threw herself over Vernon.

        “Don’t you touch him!”  She glared at Tonks, face blotchy and sweat noticeably clinging to the strands of her hair.  “You freaks stay away!”

        Dudley grabbed Petunia’s shoulder and stared at Tonks.  “But, Mummy, what if she can save him?”

        The snarl Petunia let out sounded like it had come from a Crup.  “He already killed him!  What more could they possibly do?”  The glare she shot at her son was unprecedented, and Dudley pulled back, looking as shocked as Harry felt.

        While she was distracted, Tonks cast a surreptitious spell on Vernon’s body, and shook her head sadly.  Harry looked away.  “Maybe a certified healer could do something, but this is far beyond me, Harry.  I’m sorry.”

         _Oh._  That was it, then.  Uncle Vernon was dead.  The knowledge settled heavy around Harry’s neck.  It wasn’t the same as the grief he felt for Sirius, or even Cedric.  Instead it was like part of the universe had fallen away and Harry had to deal with the change.  Something that had always been was different.  Uncle Vernon had been alive.  Now he wasn’t.

        A thump behind him made Harry start and whirl.  It was Moody, who was staring down at the corpse with the air of someone who’d done it an unfortunate number of times before.  “What’s this about you killing him, eh?”

        Harry swallowed.  “I, uh... He just... They’ve been sick. There’s a nurse.  And he thought I was... Nevermind.  He touched me and he fell down like that.  Dead.  I didn’t have my wand then.”

        Expression thoughtful, Moody started to cast spells, murmuring the incantations under his breath.  Petunia screamed again and didn’t stop until he finished.  “What have you been up to in here, Potter?”

        Harry stared at him.  “Nothing.  Chores or reading.  No spells at all.”

        That only earned him a searching look, before Moody stomped his way over to Vernon.  He kneeled down, examining what parts of his uncle he could with Petunia in the way, and cast one last spell.  He looked for all the world like a detective on Aunt Petunia’s shows.  “No curse residue.  No sign of any entry.  Looks like he just dropped dead.  Said he was sick?  Man his size, the stress probably gave him a heart attack.”

        It was awful of him, since Uncle Vernon was still dead, but Harry felt relieved.  It was impossible that this was his fault, and it was just Aunt Petunia’s grief.  

        As he nodded, Aunt Petunia scowled at them all.  “Don’t you cover up for him!  He killed my Vernon, just like his _freak_ parents.  I hope you all are next!”

        Dudley paled and reached out again.  This time his mother ignored him, but he was staring at Harry anyway.  He mouthed ‘I’ll talk to her’.

        He could try, but Harry didn’t think it would help.  So he nodded instead and mouthed ‘Thanks’.

        Moody stood up with a groan and gestured at Harry.  “Either way, you can’t stay here.  We’ll make sure they’re protected, but they’ll be safer if you aren’t here.”  Something about the way he said that made Harry pause, but he was already moving past, limping his way down the hall, and Tonks followed, leaving Harry to do the same.  Grabbing his trunk again, he managed a weak wave.  “Bye.”

        Aunt Petunia ignored him.  Her head was bowed, and Harry could see the glint of tears on her cheeks.  But Dudley waved back, though the color was leaving his cheeks again.  In the distance, Harry thought he could hear the first hints of wailing sirens.

        Harry, Moody and Tonks were gone before the ambulance arrived.

  
***

            When they appeared at Grimmauld Place, Moody moved ahead, ignoring Harry has he recovered from the Portkey.  Between the graveyard after the fourth task and leaving the Ministry after Sirius’ death, he didn’t find himself fond of them.  Tonks cast him a worried look but followed closely after her fellow Auror.  She did hold the door open for him, but Harry felt like she was trying to avoid getting too close.

He couldn’t really blame her, though it hurt.  If Harry had been told someone died from touching her, he might be a little wary of brushing her too.

       Once he was in, he tiptoed past the covered portrait, and made a thankful note that someone had moved that awful umbrella stand.  There were voices coming from the kitchen.  Following the sound of them, Harry made to enter but Moody held up his wand.  “Stop right there.”

       “Sir?”  He glanced at Tonks, who looked grave and past them toward the kitchen.  Everyone inside was frozen, watching the exchange.  “Tonks checked me.  I’m Harry.”

        Moody’s human eye narrowed.  “I know that.  You think I woulda let you in here if I wasn’t sure you were Harry Potter?”  He paused and shifted, so he was standing in front of the kitchen door, preventing Harry from entering.  “That doesn't explain why you positively _stink_ of Dark magic.”

        Immediately, there were protests from the kitchen.  Harry heard Ron’s voice the clearest, but Mrs. Weasley,the twins and Ginny were definitely in there too.  But Tonks just held up her hand and shot them a quelling look.  “Harry,” she murmured, like she trying to sound soothing.  “We just want to understand.  There was serious Dark magic in that house, and we just want to know what happened.”

        “ _Nothing_!”  Harry let out, taking a step.  “I haven’t cast a spell all summer.  The Ministry would have caught it.”

        The Aurors exchanged a glance, frowning, and Harry hoped that meant they knew that was true.  Eyes narrowed, Moody stepped forward again and cast a few more spells.  These felt like pinches and stings along his chest, and Harry yelped and took a step back.  “What was that?”

        Moody frowned, but this time instead of threatening it was just confused.  Though, on his grizzled face, confused was still plenty threatening.  “The lad’s not lying.  He hasn’t cast anything Dark, at least not for a few months.  But there’s still something wrong.”

        There were footsteps from the kitchen, and Molly pushed her way past Moody and wiped the flour from her hands onto her apron.  “Of course Harry hasn’t done anything Dark.  He would _never_.”  She shot him a warm smile, the same as she always had, and Harry relaxed.  “Let’s get this nonsense cleared up before you get an idea in your head, Alastor.”  Moody scowled at her, but his magic eye never wavered from Harry.  “We’ll call Professor Dumbledore and get this sorted out.  Perhaps it had something to do with the wards.  For now, Harry, dear, why don’t you take a seat?”

        Moody shook his head, and Tonks frowned.  “Not in there.  With the amount of Dark magic on him, he shouldn’t be around other people.  He can stay into the parlor until Dumbledore can see him.”

        “Really, now!”  Mrs. Weasley objected, reaching out toward Harry.  

 Tonks grabbed her wrist.  “Sorry, but I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.  His Uncle...”  She shook her head and cast Harry an apologetic look.  Harry’s stomach dropped.  Hadn’t it been a heart attack?      

       Mrs. Weasley huffed but didn’t try again.  “Fine.  I’ll firecall him now and we’ll get all this sorted out.”  With a last glare at the Aurors and a reassuring smile at Harry, she bustled off, shoulders set like she was going to curse everyone who delayed Dumbledore from coming over right away.

        As he watched her go, Harry wished he could feel reassured.  Instead his stomach was slowly tying itself into more complicated knots.

        Had he or hadn’t he killed Uncle Vernon?

 

***

It didn’t take long for Dumbledore to arrive, his face grim.  Harry felt like a lost puppy trailing after him, desperate for answers.  Finally they were both seated, with only the most essential people - Moody, Tonks, Molly, and a quickly summoned Snape.  He carefully poured them all tea.  Harry wanted to object, not liking the stalling.  He wanted to know what was going on already.  But that probably wasn’t a rational response.  Harry turned the glass in his fingers, eyes running over everyone’s faces before taking a small sip.

“Harry, I’d like for you to start at the beginning, please.  What happened today?”

Licking his lips, Harry put the drink aside, rocking a bit uneasily in the chair, feeling nervous.  “Nothing.  The same as usual.”

        Dumbledore gave a thin smile and took a long sip of his drink before setting it aside.  “You’ll have to forgive me Harry, I don’t know what that means.  Just take me through the day starting from when you woke up, do your best to spare no details.”

        Heaving out a breath, Harry nodded his head and scratched his chin.  “I woke up at eight with my alarm, put Hedwig’s food on the windowsill.  She’s been spending the summer in the tree in the backyard.  I went to the loo, had a shower, brushed my teeth, and then I went downstairs to put on the kettle.”  He brought up his thumb to chew on the cuticle, a bad habit he’d stolen from Ron.  “Then Kathy arrived.  She’s the home nurse that’s been taking care of the Dursleys this summer.  They’ve been getting sick.”  He looked at Dumbledore, wondering if he needed to elaborate, before getting a nod to move on.  “Then I did my chores.  I did the washing, I tidied the garden, bought some groceries.  Then I worked on some essays for homework, did some reading…”  

        “Was the nurse there all day, Harry?”

        “No, she came in the morning briefly, then went to her other patients and then came back for dinner.  She made stew, brought it up to them.  I did the dishes, made her a cuppa, then saw her out.”

        Dumbledore tapped a finger against his chin before taking a sip of his drink.  “Has this nurse gotten sick?  Have you had others this summer?”

        Shaking his head, Harry pulled over his drink and took a long swallow before coughing into his hand.  “She’s been great, really, putting up with them.  Helping them when they needed her, even when they didn’t want her around.  I didn’t really see her all that much, usually I spend time in my room.  She’d always make extra food for me, too.”  

        “So the nurse left, and then what happened?”

        “I finished up the washing.  I went upstairs, so I could go to my room, maybe do some reading, I dunno.  Uncle Vernon stopped me when I passed his bedroom.  He looked like hell.  Started spouting off the usual, that I was the one making them all sick.  That it was my 'freak-ness.'”  Harry frowned, hating saying that stuff aloud, especially in front of Mrs. Weasley and Snape.  “I told him it wasn’t me, that the Ministry would have been there.  He’s gotten all the letters, even if he burns them all, he knows the rules!  He got angry at me and then he... he tried to slap me and then…”  Harry shrugged, splaying out his hands.  “ _Boom,_ down on the floor.  Aunt Petunia said I wasn’t welcome, the house acted strange and then Tonks showed up.”

        Dumbledore made a soft, curious noise in his throat and sat back.  His eyes flicked over to Moody and Tonks, the three of them seemed to have a wordless conversation and Dumbledore nodded  his head before looking back at Harry.  “You haven’t felt sick at all this summer?”

Harry shook his head, frowning softly.  “No, sir.  All things considered I’ve felt pretty alright.  Uncle Vernon was definitely the worst off, though.  Aunt Petunia and Dudley seemed to a bit longer to get started. I figured it might be because they’re related to my mum, but I don’t know about that stuff.  Moody said that it could have been a heart attack though, said it wasn’t a spell.”

“Yes.  However, there are still things about magic many of us don’t understand.  About how it affects each person, about how the… for lack of a better term, soul, may be affected by magic.”  Dumbledore stood slowly, walking toward Harry and stopped within arm’s length of him.  “Would you hold out your hand for me, please.”

Harry obeyed, sticking his hand out, palm upward.  Dumbledore nodded again, moving his own hand so his palm faced downward to rest parallel to Harry’s, leaving a few inches of distance.  Harry watched their hands for a moment, sucking in a breath, feeling unsure, and then flicked his eyes toward Dumbledore’s face.  

“Sir?”

“Harry, that night in the Ministry… did anyone cast a Killing Curse at you?”

Harry’s brows pinched and his fingers twitched.  He was pretty sure he hadn’t mentioned it to Dumbledore.  He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, really.  After Sirius, Harry hadn’t felt like talking.  Nodding his head slowly, he met Dumbledore’s eyes again.  “Yeah, one of the Death Eaters.  It missed me, though, because I’m still here.  Must’ve shot wide.”  Mrs. Weasley gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth.  Harry shot her a reassuring smile, weak as it was, until she tried to return it.  He hadn’t wanted to worry her, or anyone, which was part of the reason why he hadn’t bothered to tell anyone.

Dumbledore’s face turned grim again and he nodded once more.  “I see.  I’m sorry to say this Harry, but I believe you were hit by that Curse and I’m afraid it’s done something do you.  To your magic itself.  Dark magic is wafting off of you in strong waves.  I thought perhaps I’d be mistaken, but no, it’s very obvious now.  The prolonged exposure to you was no doubt causing your family to become sick, and when when your uncle struck you… well… your body defended itself from the attack.”

Harry shook his head violently.  “No.  No, you’re wrong.  I didn’t.   _I couldn’t._ ”

Dumbledore let out a heavy sigh and turned from Harry.  He moved back to the chair he’d occupied, pulled up the decorative cushion and set it on the table beside the chair.  “Harry, stun the cushion, please.”

Giving Dumbledore an odd look, Harry pulled out his wand, trying his best to ignore the way Tonks shuffled back a few steps.  He whispered ‘ _stupefy_ ’ and watched as the normally benign spell hit the cushion.

It exploded, sending feathers out into the air.  Harry frowned, looking at his hand and his wand in shock and sinking slowly into his chair.   

“Uncle Vernon was right.  I _am_ deadly.”  

“You mustn’t think that way, Harry.  Think of it as an illness.  Your magic is sick.  We’re going to work very hard to mend it.  However, while we are doing so, you’re going to have to be around Wizards who can withstand Dark magic.”  Dumbledore reached out a hand to settle on Harry’s shoulder before his fingers curled up and dropped with the realization the action couldn’t be completed.  “For the remainder of the summer, you’ll be staying with Professor Snape.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to our new Beta, your_resident_fujoshi!
> 
> And, since this fic is in the spirit of old plots, what about an old game? 5 house points to anyone who can tell me the song each chapter title comes from. I'll keep tally, and we'll see which house wins at the end. Just tell me what house you'd like the points to go to.


	3. No One Wants To Dig That Deep

There was immediately protest.  Mrs. Weasley was the fastest and the loudest, followed closely by muffled shouts from upstairs, proving that his friends must have been using one of the twins’ inventions to listen in.  Snape stood up, back rigid and eyes so narrow they looked like slits, as he hissed out how he would not be taking in the Potter brat for anything, and had Professor Dumbledore lost his bloody mind?

 

The only one who wasn’t protesting was Harry.  He was staring down at his wand and his hand and didn’t really hear anything, oddly detached from the whole event.  He’d passed the sick feeling and tumbled right down into numbness.

 

His wand had been a source of great comfort since the moment he’d touched it.  The holly wood was smooth under his fingers, warm to the touch, and inside was a feather from Fawkes.  

 

A phoenix feather.  A symbol of death.  With a brother in Voldemort’s wand.

 

Harry gagged and had to duck his head to avoid being sick.

 

By the time Harry was aware again, Dumbledore had calmed down the worst of the vocal protests, though not a person in the room looked happy.  “I understand your protests, but I am afraid there is no other choice,” he said, losing all of his grandfatherly demeanor.   His eyes were hard behind his glasses, allowing no argument.  “What has happened to Harry is very rare, and has obviously never occurred before with a curse such as this.  With enough exposure, most Wizards or Witches would succumb to the same illness that affected Harry’s relatives.  Severus is the only person who could stay with him, and we cannot allow him to be unwatched during the war.”

 

Molly huffed, like she wanted desperately to object but couldn’t think of a good enough protest.  She glanced at Harry, offering another smile, but it was thin and her eyes were wet.  “Oh, Harry.”

 

Next to her, Snape scowled all the harder.  “So you would sacrifice me to keep your precious Boy-Who-Lived safe?  I didn’t know you thought me so expendable.”

 

Dumbledore gazed down at him, expression disappointed.  “You understand why you will not be so affected, Severus.  It is not a sacrifice of your life, simply of your time.  I think I can ask at least that of you.”

 

“‘At least’?”  Snape hissed, expression going so vicious Harry thought he must have forgotten everyone else in the room.  “On top of it all, this is ‘at least’?  What about my position as a spy?  Is sacrificing that an ‘at least’?”

 

Dumbledore shook his head.  “No, it is not.  I apologize, that was poorly worded.  But I do not expect you to give up your position, Severus.  Instead, you will tell Voldemort,” he paused for the flinches, and this time Harry joined them, still sick to his stomach and too raw, “that you see Mr. Potter regularly, but not enough to have any significant sway.  And in my worry and age, I will be slipping you more information to pass on.  That should keep you safe and in his graces.  Acceptable?”

 

The sound of Snape’s teeth grinding together was audible, but he did no more protesting.  Instead he glared at the side of Harry’s head.  

 

Nodding, Dumbledore stood.  “I’m sorry, Harry.  I know you’ve had a long day, but you cannot stay here tonight.  You will floo to Hogwarts with myself and Professor Snape.  Any objections?”

 

Had he been more aware, Harry would have plenty.  But those would have to wait until later.  “No, sir.”

 

Dumbledore gave him a sad, gentle smile. “You may have a few minutes to prepare, but please be ready soon.  And I ask that you give your messages to Molly.  Your friends may not exercise proper caution.”

 

The mental image of Ron laying dead the same way Uncle Vernon had made Harry shiver and fight off another wave of nausea.  He nodded.  “Yes, sir.”  Turning to Mrs. Weasley, he swallowed again, not sure what to say.  “Tell them I said hi?”

 

“Of course, dear.”  Mrs. Weasley teared up again and reached out, like she wanted to touch his cheek, but stopped herself before she got too close.  “Stay safe, dear.  We’ll be in touch, of course.  And we’ll see if we can’t see you for a bit before Professor Dumbledore figures out how to fix this.”  She shot him another watery smile and stepped back.  

 

Harry found himself missing even the slight warmth of having her nearby, but he mentally shook it off and offered a small smile of his own.  “Thank you.”  He grabbed his trunk and followed Professor Dumbledore out to the fireplace.  With one last glance back, he took the floo powder and called ‘Headmaster’s Office’, and then he was gone in a rush of green.

 

***

 

The first thing Harry noticed was that the Headmaster’s Office was much emptier.  It took him a moment to realize it was because Dumbledore had removed all the instruments Harry had broken.  Shame bubbled up in him, and he offered the headmaster an apologetic look.

 

“Did a big of spring cleaning,” Dumbledore told him, smiling slyly.  “Seems much bigger, doesn’t it?”  The tone sounded quietly forgiving, but Harry looked down at his ratty trainers rather than meet his eyes.

 

Huffing, Snape crossed his arms.  “This is hardly the time to discuss decor, Headmaster.”

 

“Right you are,” Dumbledore replied, tone still oddly cheerful, like this was all just a tiny misunderstanding he’d clear up in no time.  Harry tried to let it make him feel more hopeful, but his emotions were too twisted up for that.  Everything felt drowned out by the sick guilt.  “I’ll have the house-elves set up an extra room on your quarters for Mr. Potter here.  Since I doubt Mr. Potter has eaten, perhaps you can eat dinner together?”

 

Snape snarled again, the sound almost like the one Aunt Petunia had made, and he turned and stormed out.  He slammed the door so hard it made the portraits sway, and they made unhappy comments about the professor.

 

Not sure if he should follow or not, Harry shifted in place, then turned to Dumbledore.  “Sir... When you said this was rare... this has happened before?”

 

Dumbledore nodded and sat down in his chair, and waved for Harry to do the same.  “Yes, though as I said, not for anything like the Killing Curse.  Whenever this has happened before, it was when a Witch or Wizard had given themselves specific protection against a certain spell.  But when they were hit with it, it did not work completely, and instead affected their magic.  For example, there was a case of a witch who had a particular aversion to the Stunning Curse, and had the same problem happen to her.  In her case, her magic had a sedative effect, so even something as simple as a Cheering Charm might have put her subject to sleep.  It has a particular feel, to have one’s magic changed that way, and that was how I was able to tell what had happened.  To tell the specific curse... Well, that was also a matter of exposure, unfortunately.”

 

Alright, so that explained how Dumbledore could tell right away.  But it didn’t tell Harry anything important.  “But you can fix it, right?”

 

This time, Dumbledore glanced over at Fawkes instead of Harry.  The Phoenix thrilled quietly, but didn’t fly over to greet Harry as usual.  Instead, he treated Harry like he might have treated the chair - with utter indifference.  “I will try, Harry.  I promise you that.  But in the case I mentioned, no one was able to undo the change.”  When Harry paled, he held up a hand.  “But you differ in a key way from her.  She had done something to herself to protect against that spell, and that was what caused the backfire.  You did not.”

 

Harry’s head shot up and he stared at Dumbledore.  “That’s right!  So why did this happen?”

 

Looking very grave, Dumbledore continued to pet Fawkes.  “I’m afraid it wasn’t you, but Lord Voldemort who did that.”  Harry’s mouth dropped open.  “Oh, not on purpose.  But in the same way that the prophecy allowed you to survive...”  He paused, taking a deep breath.  “He marked you as his equal, my boy.  And if you are his equal, and he can only die by your hands...”

 

Harry paled.  “I can only die by his?”

 

“I believe that may have been the reason.”  Dumbledore finally looked at him again, watching Harry over his half-moon glasses.  “Had the Death Eater who cursed you done another curse - say, used the cutting curse on you - it likely would not have had the same effect, because it was not a death curse.  Merely one that would have caused something that killed you.  But since it was a spell designed to do nothing but kill, and to kill immediately...”  He let that hang in the silent air.  Fawkes had gone quiet, and even the portraits weren’t fake snoring, listening intently.  “And that is why this particular problem happened.  I am very sorry, Harry, and I promise I will do everything in my power to make this as easy for you as possible.”

 

Staring at him, Harry frowned.  “But the other cases were incurable.”

 

Dumbledore sighed.  “Yes.  But I would still like to do more research into the subject.”

 

Standing, Harry nodded.  “Alright, thank you, Professor.”  He grabbed his trunk, the movements mechanical, and started for the door.

 

Behind him, Dumbledore sighed again.  “Hope is not lost, Harry.  Hope is never lost.  And in those cases, they all learned to control it.  I believe you can as well.”

 

It sounded meaningless to Harry.  It felt meaningless.  “Yes, sir.”

 

There was a pause, and then the door clicked and opened.  “I’ll have a house-elf show you to Professor Snape’s rooms.  I ask you to be as respectful as you can, Harry.  This will not be easy for either of you.”

 

Yes, well, probably less easy for Harry.  He couldn’t imagine this was going to be any better than staying with the Dursley’s.  But he survived them, and he could survive Snape.  “Yes, sir.  Thank you.”

 

With that he slipped out, and his footsteps echoed oddly with each step.  It sounded like he was all alone in the castle.

 

***

 

Dinner was a lonely affair.  Harry spent it alone, since Snape never came out of his room, though they shared the same kitchen.  He mostly spent it staring at his plate, pushing food around and feeling sick to his stomach until he finally shoved the plate away in annoyance.  Unsure of what to do, Harry stood up and cleared his plate.  He’d had his trunk taken from him and directed to wait in the kitchens, and he hadn’t seen Snape since.

 

Ugh.

 

As if summoned by Harry’s displeasure, Snape walked into the kitchen, eyeing Harry for a long moment before gesturing for him to follow.  Harry noticed that Snape seemed to be wearing a pair of gloves that were made of a coarse material.  Was everyone going to have to wear that sort of thing from now on?  Was he ever going to be around anyone else besides Snape?

 

“This will be your room for the duration of your stay.  You are to keep it clean.  I am sure it is not up to your expectations, but be grateful you were able to get a bedroom here at all.  When you wish to enter it, simply use the password ‘hippocamp’ and you will be allowed in.  My room is down the hall, I am not to be disturbed unless a limb has suddenly ripped itself from your person or another such dire event has occurred.”  

 

Harry blandly thought about how much this was going to be like the Dursleys, but kept his mouth shut and stepped into the bedroom.  It had a window, high in the wall due to the location of the room being in the dungeons, but the small slice of natural light was welcome.  There was a bathroom connected, small but functional, and a bed that was the same size as the ones in the dormitories, though it didn’t have curtains around it.  He’d definitely had worse.  

 

“The password for the portrait from your room must be changed every three to four weeks due to your location and situation.  You will tell me the password.  That is not up for discussion.  If something happens to you while you are under my supervision and I am unable to assist you due to your arrogance stubbornness, I will somehow find a way to make the punishment… more painful than the infraction.  You will address me as ‘Professor Snape’ or ‘Sir’ whenever you speak with me and you will not speak ill of my House or its students.  As part of the regime of you staying with me, you will undergo further Occlumency lessons in spite of the poor progress, or lack thereof, we experienced before.  I can only hope you have grown an extra braincell to rub against the original since the summer began.  You are not to enter any of my personal stores unless I have  granted you explicit permission.  You will do your best in spite of your upbringing, coddling and otherwise aggravating nature, to not back talk or otherwise be yourself.  Am I clear?”

 

Harry balked and sneered at Snape.  The anger felt good after a haze of shock.  “Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir, I appreciate your reminders to my coddling, arrogance and otherwise brilliant Gryffindor qualities. I am ecstatic that you and I will be working together to overcome this.  I look forward to your assistance in this matter in spite of the obvious detriment to your stalwart reputation and the likely aggravation you will be withstanding due to my stubbornness and arrogance.”

 

Snape stared at him for a long moment, mouth pinched, he rose a hand, fingers loosely balled and Harry didn’t bother to tap down the thrill that jolted through him at the idea of Snape actually hitting him - surely he’d lose his job after that!  Or drop dead. Snape’s fingers finally uncurled and his arm slowly lowered and he pressed his already thin lips into a thinner line and ran his fingers over the high buttons to his collar.  “Indeed, Mr. Potter.  You’re very lucky.  Without me to handle you, your friends would be the ones to deal with you, and as we saw today, we know what happens when you’re around people who aren’t accustomed to Dark Magic, haven’t we?”

 

The words were like a punch to the throat and Harry barely managed to keep himself held back.  He wanted to launch himself at Snape like he had done to Quirrell, press his hands against his smug face until he crumbled.  Instead, he fisted his hands, letting the rage vibrate inside of him as he thought about how good it would feel to finally unleash everything on his next target.  

 

“Excellent.  I’m pleased to know you are capable of holding your tongue for once in your life.  I was worried I might have had to go to some rather primitive measures.  Go to bed, Potter.  I will see you in the morning, dressed and showered, at six-thirty.”

 

Harry watched as Snape turned and exited the room, swinging the door closed behind himself.  Though there was no telltale sound of a key turning in a lock or anything quite as dramatic, he may as well have been just as trapped.  Kicking his trunk, Harry flung himself onto his bed and glared at the ceiling until sleep finally took him.

 

***

 

Since Harry hadn’t set any sort of alarm for himself - in fact, he wasn’t really sure if he was allowed to, Hogwarts or no, since it was still summer - he slept right past six-thirty.  Instead, he woke up at six-forty, when his covers were ripped away and he found himself hanging by an ankle.

 

Harry gasped and reached for his ankle, scrambling madly at the magic that held him up, until he was finally dropped.  He hit the side of the bed and crashed to the ground in a painful pile.  Once he groaned and picked himself up, he glared at the doorway.  His room was still dark, but he could see Snape’s silhouette in the doorway, and from his crossed arm and wand out, Harry was just willing to bet he was smirking.  “Lazy teenagers sleeping in will not be tolerated, Potter.”  He drawled, sounding viciously gleeful.  “You might be allowed to be a lay-about at home, but you will not have it here.”

 

“Fat lot of laying around I did,” Harry grumbled, reaching up for his glasses and jamming them on his face.  The outline of Snape became clearer, but he still couldn’t see more.  “Dudders needed breakfast, didn’t he?”  

 

Snape stood there for a moment, not answering at all.  Finally, he turned away.  “I expect you ready in 20 minutes.”  Then he closed the door.

 

Still grumbling, Harry got ready for his day.  He dressed in school robes, because Snape had seen him in his muggle clothing once and he really didn’t need to give him any more reason to mock.  After all his practice at the Dursley’s with getting up early to start his chores, he was able to wake himself up and stumble out his door, mostly presentable, with time to spare.

 

Snape was sitting at his kitchen table, spidery hands folded in front of him, and gaze assessing.  His lips thinned, like he wasn’t pleased, and Harry wasn’t sure if it was because he expected better or expected worse.  At least if he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, Snape could have made a smart remark.

 

Moving warily, Harry sat down across from Snape and glanced down.  There was no breakfast yet, but there were pieces of paper, which Snape slid over.  “This will be your schedule for the summer.  Any complaints and I will replace the tasks with ones you will find much more unpleasant.”

 

Time for homework, time for Occlumency, time for lunch... It looked like his Hogwart’s schedule, but starting at the crack of dawn and ending with when he’d no doubt collapse into bed, exhausted.  “You gave me detention?”  Harry cried, staring up at him.  “You can’t do that.  I haven’t earned a detention.”

 

Snape smirked nastily.  “I’m sure you will have by dinner.”

 

Mouth hanging open, Harry re-read it.  It didn’t become any less unreasonable the second time around.  There was not a single moment for a break, outside of meals.  From 7:30 AM to 9PM, Harry would be working on something, with Snape breathing down his neck.

 

He was wrong.  This was worse than the Dursleys’.

 

Still smirking, Snape clapped his hands, and porridge and milk appeared in front of Harry.  On the other side of the table, Snape received waffles and syrup, with a drink Harry didn’t recognize but looked fancy, as well as a variety of fruits.  Without giving him another glance, Snape started to eat.

 

Okay, this part was exactly like the Dursleys’.  But the house-elves were much too good to ruin the food.  Still, it had been over a year since he’d had to suffer this way, since no one had been healthy enough to stop him this summer, and the indignation made his stomach burn.

 

Harry hated Snape.  He hated him.  And he was stuck with him the entire summer.  He’d have hoped he’d be dead before it came to this, but the problem was that he bloody couldn’t die.

 

As he ate the porridge, Harry stared at the schedule, already thinking of ways he could make this as difficult for Snape as it had been made for him.  After all, what else could Snape do?  This seemed so bad a few extra chores couldn’t possibly be worse, and it wasn’t like Snape could hit him.  His homework was already mostly done, so he could probably slack off some there...

 

By the time they were both finished, Harry had a few ideas he was ready to test out.  Snape stood and the dishes cleared themselves, just like they did in the Great Hall.  “It’s 7:30.  I would hope this meant you knew breakfast is over, but as these past five years have taught me not to overestimate your intelligence, I will remind you.  That means breakfast is over.”

 

Glancing up at the clock, Harry gestured toward it with his spoon.  “It’s 7:20.”

 

Snape arched a brow and flicked his wand toward the clock.  The minute hand readjusted to the six.  With another flick, Harry’s food disappeared, despite his protests.  “I told you it is 7:30, and if there is one thing you will learn this summer, it will be to listen to what I say.”

 

Grinding his teeth, Harry glared at him.  Snape stared back, expression bland.  But his eyes gave away his enjoyment.

 

It was tempting to sit at the table and refuse to move, but Harry had no desire to be levitated by his ankle again.  So he stood and stalked over, fists balled and eyes bright with suppressed rage.  It only made Snape’s eyes look all the more amused.

 

Something snapped in Harry, and he sneered in Snape’s face.  “I recognize the spell.  That’s the one my Dad used to levitated you, right?  In that memory spell.  Was it fun to use it on me?  Then again, might not have the same effect without an audience.  And you couldn’t see my pants.”

 

All the glee drained out of Snape’s eyes, and he went a splotchy, angry red.  Harry took a step back.  That may have been too far.

 

But Snape didn’t curse him, like Harry was expected.  Instead he gave a vicious smile that had none of the mean humor of before.  “As predicted, you have earned your detention.”

 

Well, shite.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a week late. I was on vacation in California, and ended up without internet for the weekend. It just about killed me, honestly, ahaha. Rather than update at a weird time, I just decided to wait the full week. This is the unbeta'd version until I can get a little snafu fixed (serves me right for not checking until now...)
> 
> Also, if you were expecting CAA style Snape... uh, oops. Sorry.
> 
> Current House Points:
> 
> Gryffindor: 0  
> Hufflepuff: 0  
> Ravenclaw: 0  
> Slytherin: 5


	4. Fight Fire With Fire

Harry’s head was pounding and he felt like he was going to vomit on his shoes.  The world slowly spun back into focus and he heaved in a breath, hands braced on the table in front of him as he desperately fought to keep his bearings.  He loathed Occulmency because Snape seemed to know every little way to worm into his head.  He’d raise a wall and it was like Snape would dig under it.  Raising his eyes to the professor once more, swallowing down another breath to try and push the bile down.  

“You’re pathetic, Potter.  Worse than before!  You’re like a pane of glass.  I can see right into everything.”  

Harry hoped he’d be like one of those dogs who thought the window was open and smacked into it.  Wiping a hand over his forehead and iignoring the way he was sweating, Harry stood back up.  “I don’t know what looking through the mundane goings on of the Dursleys is supposed to teach you.”

“The world should be thankful you aren’t a spy, then.  Every little thing must be known, examined so, if necessary, it can be exploited.”  Snape fixed him with a disapproving look.  “I had hoped you’d paid even the smallest bit of attention.  Foolish of me.”

Harry shot a sarcastic smile, though it wavered quickly.  “You know me, Sir.”

“Indeed.  Legilimens!”

Harry wasn’t even able to gasp out a counter before the world turned on it’s head.  He was back in his own memory, Vernon in front of him.  It was earlier in the summer.  Before he’d gotten sick at all, maybe a few days after he’d returned.  

“Stop lazing about, boy!  I don’t want to have to tell you twice.”  
  
The guilt and grief of the still fresh loss of Sirius hit Harry anew and he wanted to wrap his hands around Snape’s neck.  How dare he?  

“My food is going to get cold!”

Harry watched as his memory-self ran down the hall from the laundry room and into the kitchen.  Even in spite of his growth, Harry still knew it looked like he was swimming in Dudley’s clothes.  He watched himself pour everyone’s coffees and refill their plates before shuffling back off to do the dishes.  He slammed his eyes closed, trying to imagine doors slamming shut, especially in front of Snape’s hooked nose before he was back in himself again.  

“I’m glad seeing me work like a common servant is important information to you.”  Harry panted, pulling off his glasses and raking his hands over his face.  “Or is it the Muggle contraptions that have you so interested?”

“Amusing, Potter.”

“I need a break.”

“Do you think the Dark Lord will give you breaks?”

Harry felt his knees shaking and he looked up at Snape and flashed him a smile.  “He’d damn well better.  I’m the Chosen One, haven’t you heard?”

This time Snape didn’t even give warning of casting the spell, Harry felt himself knocked backward, tumbling through his own memories as Snape wordlessly invaded his mind.  

***

After the long day straining on his mind, bland supper was welcome, even followed by the looming detention.  At least with menial labour, Harry could let his mind wander, fall into the familiar patterns of scrubbing out cauldrons and washing floors on his hands and knees.  It was almost comforting how familiar it was.  Which was pathetic.  Snape watched him from his perch at his desk, reading the magical equivalent of a journal, not saying anything as he drank his after dinner tea.  Or maybe it was alcohol, Harry didn’t quite care.  Not when Snape threatened to drop one of the levitating desks, which had been moved to allow full access, on him if he missed a spot.  

“That’s enough, Potter.”  

Harry stopped, looking up in question.  He hadn’t even finished half the floor.  Not to mention there had been a mention of yet more cauldrons to be hauled out of storage for shining.  “Huh?”

“I said that you’ve done enough!  Do I need to summon the wax from your ears?  Get up and go back to your room!  You’ll spend the remainder of the night there, writing a two foot essay on the necessity of proper address.”

“I…”  The desks slammed down hard on the floor with a sudden loud noise, quick enough and close enough to make Harry jump.  He wanted to ask questions, but the murderous look on his face made Harry drop the brush into the bucket along with his gloves.

“Now, Potter, I haven’t the luxury of wasting time!”

Harry yelped when he was seized by the robes and yanked down the hall, stumbling over his own feet.  Snape gave a sharp bark of the password before throwing Harry into the room and slamming the door, which this time Harry did hear the lock.  Staring at the wood in shock, Harry scrambled forward to press his ear to the wood, listening to the hasty footfalls of Snape moving down the corridor.  He heard the squeak of the door and then the sound of it slam before a sudden oppressive silence.  

Snape had been moving like he’d had the fires of hell at his heels.  Sinking down into the bed, lazily doodling on a scrap edge of parchment, Harry wondered what or who could make Snape act that way.  It was actually kind of funny.

Halfway through his first foot of his essay, the humor in the thought sobered away as Harry realized just who could make Snape jump like that.

Voldemort had summoned him.

***

Snape didn’t return that night.  Though he tried to stay awake, Harry eventually drifted off, this time after setting his alarm spell like usual.  If he was in trouble, Snape could deal with it.

Thankfully, he didn’t dream of anything from Voldemort that night.  He didn’t think he could deal with those emotions on top of the ones that were drowning him already.  Instead he dreamt of running through the maze from the Third Task, and every time he rounded a corner, there was one of his friends, trying to help him.  When they reached out to him, there was a flash of green and they’d be dead on the ground.  Harry just kept running, trying to stay away from them so they couldn’t touch him, but they only sounded more worried and reached out farther for him...

He woke up a full hour before his alarm went off, panting and sweating.  As far as his nightmares went, it hadn’t been so bad, but in the dark and all alone, he was left with an unsettling feeling in his stomach.

Shivering, Harry got out of bed and cancelled the alarm spell.  There was no sense going back to sleep, so he’d use the extra time to get himself back under control.  A long shower left him feeling refreshed, and having the lights on and bright helped as well.  His reality was unfortunate, but that was so much better than the things his brain came up with in the dark.

A few minutes early, Harry tried his door and found it unlocked.  Snape probably had it on a timer.

When he opened the door, Snape was sitting there just like he had been yesterday.  But today there were deeper bags under his already sunken eyes, and he moved deliberately, like he ached.  Swallowing, Harry settled down in his chair, and breakfast appeared.  It was the same as yesterday, which suited Harry fine.  He wasn’t feeling all that great.  Snape seemed to be feeling the same way, because he barely picked at the fruit, and left the waffles completely untouched.  It bothered Harry, mostly because he hated seeing food wasted after all his hungry nights, but the quiet was as nice as it got with Snape.  No sense breaking it.

Until, of course, Harry’s curiosity got the better of him.  “Sir,” he started, choosing his words carefully.  Snape watched him, eyes guarded.  “You told him what Dumbledore told you to?”

Sighing, Snape put his fork down with an aggravated click.  “Yes, Potter.  I did.  Is that so surprising to you?”

Harry shook his head.  “Just wondering.”  He sipped his milk, still staring.  “Are you hurt?”

This time, Snape gave him a full glare.  “What in Merlin’s name gives you the right to ask that of me?”

Paling slightly, Harry shrugged.  “You’re acting like you hurt.”

Snape leaned forward across the table, eyes dark with barely suppressed fury.  “Yes, Potter.  There are very few meetings where I am not hurt.  Would you like the details?  Would you like to know exactly who got hit with the Cruciatus Curse?  For how long?  Or do you only want to know how long I was under it, so you can imagine it accurately?”

“No!”  Harry burst out, staring at Snape with open shock.  “Of course not. Who would do that?”

It was hard to tell if Snape’s temper cooled from his response, but he did lean back in his chair.  “I would.  Possibly your father.”  Harry bristled at the mention, because he did not believe his father would, but he managed to keep his tongue.  

For a long moment, they just stared at each other, and then Snape looked away.  “Perhaps it would be better if you could.  Merlin knows you could use a dash of murderous intent.”

That was oddly unguarded from Snape, and Harry blinked in shock at him.  “Why?”

Snape gave him a cool look.  “Because, you imbecile, you have to kill someone.  In fact, someone I would prefer to see dead.”

It took a moment, which Harry blamed on the early hour, before he got it.  “You mean the-”  He broke off and swallowed hard.  “You know that?”

“Better than most, I dare say.” Snape replied, tone darker than it had been the whole surreal conversation.  Harry just stared, confused.  Why was he allowed to know it, after all that secrecy?  Yes, he was an Occlumens, but wasn’t he the one at the greatest risk of giving it to Voldemort, intentional or no?

Finally it was Snape who looked away.  “Shut up, Potter.  It’s too early for you.”

Harry managed to be quiet for a while, focusing on his meal.  But when he glanced up, Snape’s hands were shaking.  It wouldn’t have been noticed if he hadn’t been holding a fork.  The slippery sliced fruit slid off, and Snape doggedly pursued, only for it to happen again.  “Sir.”  Snape froze, still as a cobra poised to strike.  It was a clear warning sign, but Harry had never been good at listening to those.  “Shouldn’t you see Madam Pomfrey?”

“Potter,” Snape snapped, slamming his fork to the table.  “I told you to shut up.”  He took several deep breaths, and Harry wasn’t sure if it was because he was trying to calm himself or because he was in pain.  

Snape stood in a single, jerky movement, and waved his wand.  Both of their breakfasts disappeared.  “You’re done.  Go fetch your essays.  I expect you to have worked on them instead of lazing about after your detention.”

Maybe Harry should have protested.  He’d planned on it last night, when Snape had locked him in.  But it seemed he lacked that vicious, murderous intent, because seeing someone, even someone as nasty as Snape, hurting like that made him feel bad.  So he nodded and went to grab them.

And if Snape was in pain, maybe he’d be distracted enough to be less of a bastard.  Or at least not give him ‘detention’ that night.

***

Harry had been wrong about that.

Snape was at his absolutely worst.  His essays had come back with more red ink than the original copies, and the comments scribbled into the margins had gone from insulting to outright abusive.  By the time Harry was finished with the homework block, he’d forgotten all about being helpful and had moved on to furious.

And now, facing across from Snape as they began Occlumency again, Harry could have spit in his greasy, ugly face.  He squared his shoulders and looked Snape straight in the eye, hoping his emotions would burn him as soon as he entered Harry’s mind.

But they didn’t.  If anything, Snape had an even easier time, slipping into his mind like a fish in water.  Harry ground his teeth but couldn’t seem to even keep up with Snape, much less successfully keep him out.

Then the memory started.  Sirius’ voice teasing Bellatrix, not paying attention, stepping backwards.  The curse hitting him and making him stumble  His surprised expression, so far from the smile of before, as he fell.  Professor Lupin’s arm around him, holding him back, telling him no, he’s gone, he’s gone, Harry he’s gone.

Harry found himself on the floor of the dungeons, panting like he was about to burst into sobs.  From his perch against the desk, still sitting as casually as he’d been before the spell, Snape watched him.  He tilted his head like a bird, the impression not helped by the shape and size of his nose.  “Are you quite finished?”

Snarling, Harry stood and glared at him.  “Shut up.”

Snape tapped his wand thoughtfully against his arm.  There was cruelty in his expression, but this time without any of the enjoyment.  “That sounds familiar.  Could it be that I said something similar this morning?”

“You ba-”

The spell hit him again, and this time the memory swam into view even faster.  He was in the Department of Mysteries, but it was a little earlier, in the Time room.  A Death Eater stood over him, wand glowing green.  His mask was cracked, showing the mask below, and Harry could see the lips forming words.  ‘Avada Kedavra’.  There was a flash of green.

This time, Harry was still staring when he came back to himself, but Snape had moved so he was barely over two feet away.  “You absolute imbecile!  How dare you keep that to yourself?”

Harry rubbed at the bridge of his nose and sighed.  “I was alive.  I assumed it missed, even if I wasn’t sure how.  Neville tackled him a second later, so I figured he’d made him miss.”

The look of disgust on Snape’s face made his features twist oddly.  The expression reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia.  “Pity Longbottom’s incompetence made him as useless in battle as in the classroom, or else you might not be so affected.”

“Don’t you dare blame Neville,” Harry snapped.  “He did just as a good as anyone.  Better than you would have done.”

Snape just sneered.  “I doubt that.”  He stared back, expression draining away.  “But perhaps you need a reminder of how serious this is.”

Once again, Snape cast.  This time it was Privet Drive.  Vernon was snarling at him, telling him to stop whatever he was doing.  Behind him, Petunia wrung her hands.  He raised his own, face ruddy below the odd pallor of his fever and eyes bright with desperate hatred.

A flash of green later, Uncle Vernon was dead on the floor, just as Harry remembered him, and Petunia screamed.

This time, Snape let the memory play on until Tonks arrived, despite Harry’s desperate struggles to get him away.  If anything, it seemed like that he enjoyed making Harry relive the moment.  When he finally stopped the spell, Harry was panting and his eyes were wet.  Why were they wet?  He hadn’t cried that night, or at all, really.  What the hell reason did he have to cry now?

Snape scoffed at him and leaned back on the desk again, like he wanted to enjoy the show.  Everyone come see Potter snivel.  Slytherins get in half price.  “Are you quite finished?”

Ignoring him, Harry wiped at his eyes.  He was not going to cry.  Not really.  Not in front of Snape, who would bring it up forever.  ‘Don’t think the Dark Lord will call time out because of a little sobbing, Potter.  It will only encourage him.’  But it seemed like he’d hit some kind of mental wall, because he started to tremble instead.

“Oh, quit your carrying on,” Snape finally snapped.  He leveled his wand at Harry, clearly prepared to start casting again.

Harry didn’t let him. He spun on his heel, wand at the ready.  Without eye contact, the whole thing was useless.  But it was better if he wasn’t in the room.

“Potter!  Come back here!”  Snape roared, but Harry ran to the door, and cast ‘Alohomora’.  He didn’t have much hope it would work, given the complex charms on the door.  But rather than simply open the door, the entire network of spells around it came crashing down and the door blew completely off it’s hinges.

Snape snarled wordlessly, clearly angry over the destruction of his property, but Harry didn’t stick around to hear it.  He barreled out of Snape’s hallways and into the dungeon hallways.

This was stupid.  Harry knew it was stupid immediately.  He could literally run into someone and get them killed.  But frankly, Harry didn’t give a damn.  The build-up in his chest had to get out now, away from Snape, or else someone was going to wind up dead.  It was a toss-up who that would be.

Finally, he took a sharp turn into an old classroom.  It looked like it hadn’t been used it years.  Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, and a few odds and ends - empty bottles and quills and the like - were still strewn around, abandoned.

It was perfect.

Harry pointed his wand at the closest desk and cast the Blasting curse.  The desk didn’t just blow up - it exploded, in a fiery burst like the films Dudley liked.  Thankfully it was all directed away, or Harry would have been covered in dust and small bits of desk.

It felt good.

He did it again.

He did it again and again until he wasn’t really casting anymore.  Until it was just bolts of green magics, creating a path of destruction through the classroom.  Until he lost his wand and just kept going, vicious, deadly magics leaving his fingertips and violently ending anything they touched.  Until he could breath without screaming, until he wasn’t sad and frustrated and guilty and grieving anymore, until he could just sit in the middle of the remains of the room and stare calmly at the ceiling.  

Harry had managed to get some decent slices up there too, it seemed.  Points for thoroughness.

That was how Snape found him a few minutes later.  Harry expected him to scream and punish him, furious over the destruction of school property.  Which he probably should be.  It didn’t get more destroyed than that.

But instead he looked almost thoughtful as he gazed around.  Harry glanced around himself.  Nothing was still standing.  The desks were all smoldering splinters, and the blackboard was cracked into several pieces, like something with huge, sharp claws and run along the length of it.

Finally, it was Snape who broke the odd silence.  “I believe I was wrong before.”  Harry turned to stare at him again.  He was watching Harry with something almost like consideration.

“Sir?”  Harry replied, voice still calm.  He didn’t want to be angry, if he didn’t have to be.  This odd destructive peace was nice.

Snape smiled.  It was not a nice smile.  In fact, Harry could have seen him wearing the same expression while dissecting animals for parts.  “You may have some murderous instinct after all.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted at 1:20 AM at debate camp, unbeta'd
> 
> Slytherin is at ten points. Everyone else hasn't been on the board


	5. When Rome's In Ruins

` The next morning, Harry made his way to the kitchen table, still tired enough to ignore Snape. His outburst yesterday had left him achy and exhausted, but he’d still been glared and insulted into finishing his schedule. All the work he’d done on his homework was no doubt going to be gleefully covered in red ink as soon as he was forced to turn it into Snape after breakfast.

With a pop, plates appeared in front of Harry. He reached automatically for a spoon, and paused when he realized it was a fork. Rather than the same bland porridge, he had been served scrambled eggs, with a side of toast and fresh fruit. 

“Sir?” Harry asked, finally glancing up at Snape. The professor had nothing in front of him. Instead, he was leaning onto the table as if he was controlling himself from leaping across it, and he was staring so piercingly that Harry automatically looked away. He’d only seen that level of intensity when Snape was using Legilimency. Honestly, it just made Harry suspicious. Had Snape spiked breakfast with something? It smelled good, but that meant nothing with a Potions Master living there, did it? Harry carefully put down his own fork and glanced at Snape through his fringe. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“No,” Snape replied, voice low enough to was barely more than vibrations. 

Harry waited, but Snape didn’t seem to have anything else to say. He picked the fork back up and played with the eggs. They looked delicious, but the idea of putting them in his mouth while Snape was still watching like that made him feel ill. It was like he was waiting for a potion to boil over and start smoking. 

Eventually, he decided this was ridiculous and put his fork back down. Harry crossed his arms and glared at Snape, who just continued to stare, though he did stop leaning on the table. “I’m not eating until you tell me what you did to it.”

For a moment, Snape just tilted his head, and Harry was reminded of a vulture he’d in a documentary over the summer. “I did nothing. But by the time the summer is over, I assure you, you will have learned how to tell the difference.” He stood, and the plate and the food disappeared. Used to it, Harry just stood up and continued glaring, though he didn’t bother to protest over his breakfast. No way Snape would bring it back, since he hadn’t so far, and Harry wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of a fit. 

Seeming to get tired of Harry’s mullish look, Snape finally lost the odd expression and sneered. “And do not forget to call me Sir, Potter. That’s detention again tonight.” 

Indignation made Harry want to spit at Snape, but he managed not to. It’d just give him a real excuse for his stupid detentions. As if he ever needed one. Harry could be a perfect, model student, and Snape would give him detention for taking notes too loudly. He’d certainly done it to Hermione before.

Silence hung between them, until Snape finally turned, robes whipping around him from the force of it, and stalked toward the door. “Follow me, Potter.” 

Harry stared at his back, because this wasn’t the schedule, but Snape didn’t wait for him, and he had to hurry to catch up. Maybe it was stupid, especially after Snape had basically promised to poison him at some point, but he had to admit he was curious. And with Harry, curiosity normally won.

Following Snape into the classroom he’d trashed the day before, Harry bit back a sigh. Oh, so it was just a matter of punishing him, then. It had been odd when Snape had let him go without so much as an insult, but maybe he’d just been waiting. 

Snape stood in the middle of the room, eyeing Harry with that odd expression again. His long fingers laced together, covered in the thick gloves he used during these odd lessons. Harry hadn’t even noticed that he’d been wearing them at the table. “How much of this destruction was intentional?” His voice had dipped down low again, and now that Harry was a bit more awake, he thought Snape might have sounded almost happy. Or, as happy as Snape ever sounded.

“Not much. Not really. I mean, I controlled what it was doing, but it had to happen.” Shrugging, Harry ignored the way Snape followed every movement. “It was going to come out, and I needed to get away from you. After all, Dumbledore probably wouldn’t like it if I killed my guardian.” 

Arching a brow, Snape crossed his arms. “Another guardian, you mean.”

Harry jerked like he’d been slapped and looked away. It was beginning to become a habit to swallow whenever he thought of Uncle Vernon, to keep the bile back.

When he had control of himself again, Snape was smirking. It made Harry tense, but with the guilt still clawing at him, it didn’t seem worth the effort to yell. So he just nodded. “Yeah. Another one.” His voice sounded almost dead.

The smirk dropped, and Snape looked almost take back at Harry’s tone. “You are really so bothered by that oaf’s death?” He moved closer, so he was only a foot away from Harry. The proximity to someone else made Harry’s heart pick up, both from the danger of it and from how little there had been. He hadn’t thought about it, since it was Snape, but it had been ages since he’d so much as brushed against another person.

The realization made his skin itch, and Harry idly rubbed his hand against his other arm. “I killed him. Of course it bothers me.”

“Why should it?” Snape pressed, and this time his expression was oddly passionate. His eyes seemed to burn. “I’ve seen what happened. He hit you. You said they treated you terribly. I’ve seen some of that too. One might say he had it coming.”

Green eyes snapped up to meet Snape’s, and Harry frowned. “You might.” Snape only nodded. He didn’t understand why sometimes Snape acted like the Dursley’s spoiled him, and then acknowledged that they were awful. The only pattern seemed to be what tormented Harry most. “Well, I wouldn’t. And I don’t think Dumbledore would, either.”

Snape’s expression didn’t change. “Dumbledore is responsible for more than you know. Do not let him fool you. He has killed before.”

“For the war,” Harry shot back, hand clenching around his arm. “People die in war.”

Snape smiled. It was the same nasty one he’d shown Harry yesterday, full of yellow, crooked teeth and vicious pleasure. “No. Not for a war at all. When he was barely older than you, Potter. In fact, I believe they were muggles. Do you condemn him, as you condemn yourself?”

What? Harry stared up at Snape, mouth falling open. It earned him a sneer, but Harry couldn’t care less. Dumbledore had killed muggles? That made no sense. No sense at all. “I don’t believe you.”

“The glorious thing about the truth is that it remains truthful, regardless of belief,” Snape replied, voice like a purr. “You may ask him yourself. I’m sure he would be happy to tell you, if only to ease your burden.”

Harry searched Snape’s face, looking for any sign of a bluff. He didn’t see any. Just that nearly fanatical glee. “He wouldn’t.”

“He did,” Snape shot back, not giving Harry even a moment to try and convince himself. “It’s not common knowledge, of course, but it’s known by several people. You may ask him yourself, but only once we’re through here.” He eyed Harry again, back to contemplative, and Harry wondered how such an outwardly emotionless man could flip around so much. It was making him dizzy. “One would think you would appreciate this power. After all, it makes your purpose much easier.”

Brow furrowing, Harry blinked at him. “Purpose?” It took him a moment to realize what Snape was talking about, mostly because until yesterday it had never crossed Harry’s mind that he, of all people, knew about the prophecy. “How the hell do you know that?”

Snape smirked, enjoying his outrage. “You know I enjoy Dumbledore’s trust. I have heard it from him on several occasions. Who else would tell me?” He paused, like that was amusing to him. “Please try to use your brain, Potter. It will make this lesson go faster.”

Something about how Snape had worded that made Harry wary. Purpose. Like that’s what Harry was good for. Killing Voldemort.

But, hell, killing was what he was good at, now. Even unintentionally, his very magic was death. And he hadn’t thought of it that way, but now Harry did have a better chance, didn’t he? Voldemort could still strike him down, but even the spells he’d used against him before would have a better chance, now. 

Besides that, yelling wasn’t going to make Snape forget. Harry was still going to talk to Dumbledore when he could, so for now his best bet was to get through this. “What lesson?”

“We are going to learn what you can do,” Snape replied, giving another of those nasty smiled. “And we will do this by dueling.”

Then, before Harry could react, he pulled his wand and cast a Blasting curse. It sent Harry tumbling backwards, crashing him into one of the broken desks. He groaned, recovering, and another spell, this one unknown to him, wizzed by the top of his head. 

The instincts that had always served him well in battle kicked in, and Harry pushed himself up and darted away before the desks rose up and crashed back down. Darting behind a heap of broken desks, Harry finally pulled out his wand and aimed it at Snape. Then he froze. Everything he cast was with his magic, and that was deadly. And he didn’t want to kill. Not again.

Snape, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate at all. Another spell created a cloud of dark smoke. It sunk to the floor and swirled on itself until it formed what looked like some kind of rodent. Before he could get a properly look at it, it darted forward.

The Shield Charm Harry cast was completely automatic, and a normal one probably wouldn’t have worked on the weird smoke. But the rodent thing was hit the charm and sprang back with a scream like a tea kettle. It shivered and scratched at itself, ripping away bits of darkness that turned to steam, until it was all gone.

Harry pointed his wand at Snape again, still surrounded by his Shield. “That was Dark,” he hissed. 

“You are Dark,” Snape replied, tone flip. “Are you prepared to make judgements based on that?”

Something in Harry finally snapped, and he grabbed one of the broken vials and hurled it at Snape. He dodged it neatly, and it shattered on the broken blackboard. Ignoring the way the glass had sliced his own hand, Harry ran forward, arm outstretched, and aimed right at Snape’s chest. Once he was only a few feet away, he leapt like he was trying to tackle his professor right around the middle.

Harry froze midair, hand still a good few inches away from brushing Snape’s robes. He strained, but he couldn’t get any closer. Finally, he sagged, still refusing to meet the dark eyes watching him.

“Better,” Snape replied, and let him fall. Harry hit the ground in a painful heap, making the bruises he’d gotten earlier throb. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” He stepped away, and Harry watched his feet take a few steps, then paused. “How badly are you injured?”

Slowly sitting up, Harry shrugged. “Nothing broken.”

Snape nodded. “Good. You will only be healed if bones are broken, or you are bleeding badly enough to threaten you. Perhaps that way you’ll learn.” Apparently finished, he made his way toward the door. Indignation rose in Harry, egged on by his pain and frustration. What the hell was wrong with Snape?

“Wait,” Harry called. Snape stopped at the door, but he didn’t turn around. Anger bubbled in Harry. It tasted like poison. “If Uncle Vernon deserved to die for what he did to me... Then what do you think you deserve?”

For a long time, Snape just stood there, and Harry was half sure he was about to be cursed until he was just a bloody smear. But when he spoke, Snape’s voice was almost mild. “Much worse than that.”

He left, leaving Harry to pick himself up off the floor.

***

Later, Harry found himself in the hallway in front of Dumbledore’s office. He’d been so ready to march up here and prove Snape wrong. Of course Dumbledore had never done that, and Harry was going to hear it straight from the man himself. And Snape would regret ever making up such a ridiculous lie, and Dumbledore would set him straight, and Harry would never have to think about it again.

But the longer he stood here, the less confident he felt. That there was might be least some grain of truth in what Snape had said. Why would he tell a lie so easy to verify?

And Harry didn’t really want to leave in a world where Dumbledore had done that. He was supposed to be good and right and reliable. If he wasn’t, what else had he done wrong? What other mistakes had he made?

Harry had gotten through a lot with the knowledge that he was supported by Dumbledore, and so he was Right. He’d made it through the summers because Dumbledore said it was the best choice. If Dumbledore wasn’t so infallible, then maybe there had been other options. Maybe he hadn’t needed to grow up there at all.

Or, worse, if Dumbledore was the kind of person who could kill and act so above it all, maybe he was also the kind of person who could pretend it was for Harry’s own good, when he had other reasons.

Harry opened his mouth to give the password, and froze. He stared at the gargoyle, then turned around and made his way back down to the basement. 

He spent all of lunch avoiding Snape’s eyes. Snape spent it all smirking at him like he’d expected nothing better.

Harry was starting to think he shouldn’t expect better either. Things only ever seemed to get worse, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Friday somewhere.
> 
> For the record, no, you're not supposed to understand what Snape is thinking. But this chapter has the biggest hint you'll be getting for a while.


	6. If You Close Your Eyes

“Potter!”  Snape barked, as Harry picked himself off the floor yet again.  His head already felt like like his blood was trying to pound it’s way out with a hammer, and each throb made his chest ache again.  “How is it possible for you to get worse each time we try this?  Surely even you can’t be this useless.”

The odd calmness Snape had shown before had long since dried up, and Harry wasn’t sure he was happy to go back to normal.  At least the other way had meant less insults.  He could deal with the bruises better than the yelling.  “I can’t do it.”  He shrugged and glared at Snape, arms crossed over his chest.  “I just can’t.  I’m bad at Occlumency.  Why are you even trying anymore?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he tapped his wand against the desk.  “One would think that you would have more respect for the skill.  Or, failing that, that you would at least try.  Since your failure is why the Mutt is dead now.”

The guilty bile was becoming familiar by now, but Harry didn’t think he’d ever get over the shock of pain those words caused.  “I tried.  It just didn’t work.  I still don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.  You never taught me.”  Snape glared at him until Harry snarled out, “Sir.”

“You tried?”  Snape replied, brows raising.  “Then, tell me, how often did you practice?  Every night?  Every week?  Ever?”  Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Snape pushed on.  “And did you look up resources in the library?  Did you read up on any Occlumency skills to help you?”

Harry glanced away, half because Snape’s words were true and half because he was afraid he’d try to touch the man again.  He’d deserve it.  Snape had said so himself.  

He hated that he’d started to measure how much people deserved to die.

“You never told me to do any of that.  How was I supposed to know?”

Snape’s snort was disgusted, and Harry didn’t bother to look at his expression.  It would have been worse.  “Yes, how could you possibly know to look in the library at Hogwarts.  It’s only one of the biggest resource libraries in all of the Wizarding World.  One must wonder how you’ve managed to pass any class since you seem so unaware of it.  Or, perhaps you could have done what you do for all of your homework, which is to say looked at your side and asked Granger to do it for you.”

“I didn’t think-”

“No, you didn’t.”  Snape leaned forward over his desk, teeth bared, and Harry flinched back instinctively, forgetting that he couldn’t be hit..  “You ran off with your little gang without once thinking it through.  And because of it, not only did you risk their lives and your own, but that of the Order.”  Tears blurred Harry’s vision, and he ducked his head to try to hide them and the way he was starting to shake.  He didn’t think it worked.  “You did kill Black.  And you did kill yourself.  You should be dead. And now you’ve put everyone around you in danger, including myself, just by continuing to exist.  And yet you still refuse to accept that your actions have consequences!”

Snape finally sat back, going silent.  He was probably waiting for a response, but Harry didn’t think he was capable.  Instead he clapped a hand over his mouth, to help muffle his shaky breaths and keep his stomach under control.  He was shivering like the Dursleys had been for most of the summer, like he was burning with fever, and he didn’t know how to control it.  In front of Snape.  Already, he could hear the sneers and the mocks, about what a pathetic child he was.

But instead Snape sighed and drummed his spidery fingers across the desk.  “And then there is the matter of your invasion of my privacy, which we have never discussed, and you have never been punished for. The sheer arrogance of assuming you had the right to my time, my pensive and my memories...”  Snape’s voice lowered to a vicious hiss, and Harry could feel his glare on the top of his head.  “Was it the humiliation you had hoped?  Or perhaps the point was to anger me enough to free you of your obligation?”

Finally, Harry felt recovered enough to at least respond, and he shook his head.  As the worst of the grief started to edge away, he could feel the anger underneath, and he clung to it.  It was better than feeling like he was drowning.  “It had nothing to do with you,” he replied, voice oddly neutral.  Snape called him arrogant, and then assumed all of Harry’s actions were about Snape?  “Everyone was keeping things from me.  About me, and about Voldemort.”  The name earned him a glare, but Harry ignored it.  “I needed to know.”

Snape sneered.  “Pathetic.  Am I supposed to find that nonsense a reasonable excuse?  You think yourself entitled to all secrets, and so your breach of my privacy is acceptable?  Just like your-”

Jumping up before he could finish that, Harry stood over the table, as Snape had done earlier.  He was still shaking slightly, but it was so, so easy to let it be rage and not grief.  “Shut up!”  He snarled, sharp enough that Snape did pause, eyebrows jumping up.  “I am entitled to secrets that are about me.  It’s my damn life!  Dumbledore was ignoring me, and then he was gone, and Umbridge was here, and Voldemort was out there and he’s going to come after me, so I should understand him.  Especially if I’m supposed to kill him!  So, yeah, I looked.  I looked because I thought there’d be Death Eater meetings or something about the hallway or something.  And it wasn’t.” Harry bared his teeth and dug his fingers into Snape’s desk.  “Instead it was my Dad being an arse.  Like Malfoy.  And... And Sirius said...”  Harry slowly backed up and sat back down, head bowed again.  That had been one of the last conversations he’d had with his Godfather, and he still didn’t really understand it.  Not fully.   How they could look back and find something like that funny?  Maybe it was the perspective of age, but Snape didn’t seem to act like that.  “Why would I tell anyone that?”

Snape stared at him, and Harry couldn’t read anything in his expression, though it might have had shades of that odd searching look he kept adopting.  “That is not an acceptable excuse,” was all he said.

“You’d never find any excuse acceptable,” Harry replied, tone going quiet again.  He met Snape’s eyes, trying to figure out what direction he was going to go in now.  At least the Dursley’s were predictable.  Here, he didn’t even have that comfort.  “It’s just the truth.  Might as well be.”

Nodding slowly, like he’d figured something out, Snape tilted his head.  Before Harry could react, the tip of his wand appeared over the top of his desk.  “Legilimency.”

Just as before, Snape pushed right into Harry’s mind with no real resistance.  A memory swam up of being in the pensieve.  As it played out, and Harry watched his father and his friends talk and laugh and turn on Snape after. How Harry had felt gutted, as his Dad acted so different from how he saw himself.  That when everyone compared him James Potter, that was who they were thinking of.

The way he’d realized that Harry Potter might not be all that much like James Potter, at least at 15.  How the pride he’d always felt when compared to the man twisted from that disconnect.

Then the memory ended, before Lily Evans even showed up, and faded into another, as if the two were linked.  This one was when he was young, probably around 8 or so.  He’d finally asked Aunt Petunia about his parents again, trying to learn more, and all he’d gotten was the same speech, about how they were drunks who crashed their car.

Something in Harry finally snapped.  Why did Snape need to do this?  Why was Harry the one who had to verify his intentions?  Snape had decided what Harry was before he’d ever set foot in Hogwarts, and somehow the burden was on him to refute that?  Snarling - in his head or in reality, Harry wasn’t sure - he gave up lashing out at the intrusion, and grabbed at his memories, instead.  He went for that first Potions class and threw it.

For the first time, Snape hesitated, and Harry gave a vicious smile. Next he grabbed one from his childhood of cooking breakfast and threw that too.  Spoiled, was he?  He’d show Snape spoiled.  Next were a handful of Dudley, at birthdays and Christmas, demanding more and more toys while Harry watched from his cupboard.  It hurt, but it was almost a good hurt, because from the way Snape was stumbling and retreating, it was probably hurting him more.

Finally, Snape pulled all the way out, and Harry blinked into full awareness.  For a second he grinned, because he’d thrown Snape out and defended himself.  But then the pain that he’d felt multiplied and slammed into him like a train.

Harry collapsed onto the floor, curling around his head and clutching at his temples.  It felt like his brain had been torn into and scratched at, and part of him was morbidly sure that if he let go his skull would simply rip apart.

Above him, he vaguely heard Snape curse, but it was lost to the pain, and Harry ignored it.  He was too busy fighting to hold himself together.  

What he did notice was a hand landing on his shoulder.  He started badly and scrambled away, shocked by the warmth and pressure that he hadn’t felt in weeks.  It was hard to remember why, with his head on fire, but he knew on some level being touched was bad and it wasn’t supposed to happen.

But the hands chased him, grabbing his chin and pulling it up.  Harry’s vision swam sickeningly, but he was able to see that the hands were wearing thick leather gloves.  That was probably okay, then.  “Stupid boy,” Snape hissed, but that was okay too, because it was quiet.  “Foolish, idiotic boy.”

Then Snape was gone, but before Harry could really register it and curl back up again, he was back, and there was something at his lips.  He tried to jerk away, but Snape used the hold he’d regained on his chin to force his mouth open.  Something foul tasting passed into his mouth, and Harry tried to sputter and spit, but the grip made that nearly impossible, and finally he swallowed instinctively.

It didn’t happen quickly or suddenly, but the pain started to recede, until Harry could focus on his surroundings again.  His head still throbbed like a migraine, but that he could work with.  It was the same pain he felt after most Occlumency lessons, after all.

Snape was a few feet away, and no longer close to touching him.  Absurdly, stupidly, part of Harry ached from that.  He wanted to be touched.  It had been warm and even a little reassuring.  But that was stupid, and this was Snape.  And an accidental brush of skin on skin could kill the man, so why would he?

Strangely, Snape was sitting on the floor with Harry, back to his desk and eyes sharp.  “Of all the stupid, self-destructive things you could have done, even I would not have suspected you could do that to yourself.”

Harry curled up again, this time bringing his knees up and resting his forehead on them.  He really didn’t want to listen to Snape anymore.  Maybe ever again.  But he was still too shaky to stand without falling down, so he had no other choice.  “Wanted to hurt you.”

There was a pause, and then Snape snorted.  “That backfired.”

“Not at first.”  Harry shrugged and rubbed at his temples.  “Hurt you more at first.  Didn’t matter if I hurt, so long as you hurt more.”

There was another long bout of silence, and then Snape made an odd, breathy noise.  It took a few moments before Harry realized that Snape was laughing.  At least, something close to it.  Eyes wide, he picked his head up and stared.  Snape watched him right back.  “Once in a blue moon, just when I think you are totally without sense, you say something interesting.”  Finally, his amusement seemed to run it’s course, and the man stood and brushed off his robes.  “You will not try such a foolish stunt again.  It will help no one if you give yourself permanent brain damage.  As it is, I’m not certain you haven’t already.”  Shaking his head, Snape started for the door.  “You have until dinner.  I expect you use that time to sleep and heal.  After, I believe you’ve earned yourself another detention.”

Harry groaned and clutched his head.  Snape didn’t react, but Harry thought he saw him smirking as he closed the door behind him.

***

**  
  
**

Part of Harry considered staying up just to ignore Snape, but his head still hurt too much and a nap sounded wonderful.  So as soon as he was able to stand on his own he stumbled into his room and collapsed into bed.

 

When he woke up, Harry reached instinctively for his wand, planning on casting a Tempus charm.  But just holding his wand felt odd now.  The magic in it didn’t feel like warmth or sparks.  It was more like needle pinpricks.  It was worth it to get up on time, but it made him nervous anyway.  Sighing, Harry put it back down and sat up, wishing he’d bothered to replace the watch he broke during the Second Task.  At least his head didn’t hurt as badly.  Harry was good at being thankful for the little things.

The sound of his door opening made him look up, and he saw Snape at the doorway, arms folded across his chest.  Immediately, Harry sprang out of bed, not wanting to hear the complaining about laziness.  It was something he expected over the summer, and between being in pain and constantly yelled at, it seemed a safe bet to assume Snape would do the same.

But all Snape did was stare, at least for the moment.  Something about the way he was holding himself, arms tight around his chest and face pinched, seemed odd, but Harry couldn’t place what, exactly.  So he just waited to see what direction Snape would take the conversation this time, since he never seemed to be able to predict it.

“What would I get if I  you add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Potions questions?  Now?  Harry scowled and shrugged.  “You’d know better than me.”  Snape smirked in acknowledgement.  “I don’t know.  Was that supposed to be in the homework or something?”

Snape shook his head slowly.  “I have asked you this before.  You don’t recall the answer?”

“Frankly, Sir, you’ve asked me a lot of questions I don’t remember,” Harry shot back, rubbing at his temples.  He’d already gotten detention today, and he didn’t really care about being polite right now.  “Was this a special occasion?  My 1000th incorrect answer?”  Bring on the balloons and the confetti.  It’d be less weird than his life had become.

Still staring, Snape tilted his head.  “No, Potter.  It was your first.”  Harry started in surprise.  “What happened during your first Potions lesson?”

Harry opened his mouth, and then frowned.  He knew this.  He knew he’d remembered this plenty of times before.  But he just couldn’t seem to recall, although he could remember his first day of every other class.  “Uh...”  Brow furrowing, he stared at Snape.  But then he remembered the last time he’d accessed that memory, and his stomach dropped.  “Oh.  I threw that one at you.”

“Dubiously put, but yes.”  Snape replied.  He finally stepped out of the doorway and into the room, still staring at Harry like an ingredient that wouldn’t stay still for long enough for him to dissect it.  “It seems you’ve lost the memory.  What about the others?  The Christmases and your cousin’s birthdays?”

Harry’s expression twisted.  “I can’t remember them either.  Some of them.  Harder to tell, since there are more.  And I don’t think I really want to remember those.”

Nodding slowly, like he didn’t enjoy agreeing, Snape sighed.  “Indeed.  Well, congratulations, Potter, you have managed to do permanent harm to yourself.  A pity memory scars aren’t nearly so good for staring at.”

“Fine with me,” Harry snapped, glaring.  His hand automatically reached up to smooth his bangs over the scar.  He might not have even noticed if Snape’s eyes hadn’t tracked the movement.  “What about you, then?  Did I scar you too?”

Snape tilted his head.  “No.  While your attack was uncomfortable, it was not enough to repel an attacker.  Proper Occlumency would have been more effective.”  Before Harry could open his mouth to argue that it had repelled someone, Snape continued.  “I drew out because I understood the damage you were foolishly doing to yourself.  Had I waited any longer, I am not sure you would still be functional.  Any other opponent who wished you harm would have simply let you destroy yourself.”

Oh, hell.  The first time he’d managed to get it right, and it turned out he’d just done a new kind of wrong.  Harry sat down on his bed and scrubbed his face, ignoring Snape for long enough to collect himself.  “Nothing else worked.”

“You never properly tried anything else,” Snape replied, though without quite so much venom as Harry had expected.  There was silence for a long time, and Harry still didn’t look up.  “I will think on this, however.  Your negative progress could be simply your ineptitude, but in this particular case, it could also be from the changes to your magic.”  Harry’s head shot up, amazed Snape was allowing for an excuse like that, and met a glare.  “However, that does not excuse your previous ineptitude.”

Harry bristled, but didn’t argue.  The sick guilt was too close for that.

Nodding, Snape inclined his head toward the door.  “It is time for dinner.  If you are not up and ready to eat before it ends, you understand the consequences.”  There was a minute, barely there pause when Snape talked about food.  Harry might have thought it was his normal, dramatic way of speaking, but something about it pulled at him.  Snape turned and stalked toward the door, and in the light from the kitchen, he looked even paler.  

Oh.

“You’re sick,” Harry blurted.  “From me.  Aren’t you?”

Snape froze, and then scowled fiercely.  Harry took an automatic step back.  Maybe he should have thought of a better way of bringing that up, because Snape had a look in his eyes that reminded Harry of the time he’d seen Dudley and his friends corner a stray cat.  

Holding up his hands placatingly, Harry took a step forward, and then another one back.  “Don’t-  I just asked.  Because you touched me, right?  With gloves.  You’re not...”

Slowly, Snape relaxed.  At least, the Snape version of relaxed.  He looked slightly less likely to curse Harry, which was close enough.  “I am experiencing side effects, yes.  But don’t celebrate too soon.  It is mild, and it will pass.”

Harry frowned at him.  “I wasn’t celebrating.”  It came out surprisingly raw.  “I don’t want you sick.”  Or worse.  The image of Snape sprawled out like Uncle Vernon had been, from Harry’s hand, played out behind his eyes, and he shuddered.

Snorting disbelievingly, though he didn’t look totally sure, Snape just turned and continued into the kitchen.  “The Headmaster placed you here specifically because I am resistant to Dark magic.  Nothing beyond skin to skin contact will cause severe side effects, as you would know if you paid attention to anyone for longer than a few minutes.”

Harry had been here too long, because that had almost seemed comforting to him.  So he changed quickly and followed Snape into the kitchen.

The meal passed in silence, made all the more awkward from Snape’s lack of appetite and Harry’s guilt over that.  For once, it finished on time, rather than whenever Snape decided to cut Harry off.

Glancing up, Harry winced at the cruel smile on Snape’s face.  “Now, for the matter of your detention...”

***

That night, Harry stared up at his ceiling.  The detention had involved a lot of lugging around jars and containers as Snape decided what supplies hadn’t survived the end of the school year and needed to be replaced.  Then he had to clean out all the ones he’d decided against keeping.  It had taken several hours, and he should be exhausted.

But the nap earlier was working against him, and Harry was still wide awake. And since he wasn’t going to give Snape the satisfaction of working on his homework more, he was left without much to do.

Except it was Hogwarts.  And at Hogwarts he could use magic.

Harry grinned.

Picking up his wand, and ignoring the needle sensation, Harry cast the Levitation charm on a quill.  Rather than a gentle rise, it whipped up and around like it was in a tornado.  Bits of the feather were ripped off and thrown across the room, and several drops of ink splashed on the bed and floor.  But as far as his magic went, this was fairly tame.  And when he concentrated, the whirlwind got slower and a bit more gentle.

So maybe nicer spells would be less affected?  Because, really, it was hard to make something innocent like a Colour-Changing charm deathly.  He tried that one out on the same quill, and the feather turned acid green.  No matter what colour he focused on, he couldn’t even change the shade.

Well, if Harry ever wanted to make everything around him the colour of the Killing Curse, he’d be set.

What else was harmless?  He could see something like the Cheering Charm going horribly wrong, considering how even a little extra power could leave the subject a giggling wreck.  But what about something that could only be used for a good purpose?

What about a Patronus?

Closing his eyes and concentrating, Harry let a small smile cross his face.  At least this he could do, so long as he only hurt the bad memories instead of good ones.

“Expecto Patronum.”

The familiar shape erupted, thankfully still silver.  It would have been creepy to have a green mist around.  And it was forming properly, too, not doing anything strange like attacking on its own.  

It took Harry a moment to realize the details were wrong.  It was still a big, hooved animal, but it wasn’t until he noticed it didn’t have antlers that he looked properly.

This wasn’t Prongs at all.  It wasn’t even a stag.

His patronus was a Thestral.

It shifted in place, restless in the mostly empty room.  There were no enemies to focus on, so instead it seemed to be reacting to Harry’s growing panic.

Before Harry could try and calm himself, the glowing creature rose up as far on it’s hind legs as possible in the room and let out a piercing whinny that sounded terrifyingly like a scream.

Harry raised his wand to cancel the spell, but the door slammed open, and Snape stared at the patronus, his own wand gripped tightly and mouth set in a scowl.

 


	7. With A Devil On Your Back

Snape eyed the ghostly Thestral and slowly lowered his wand. “Potter, what on earth made you cast a Patronus?”

“Wanted to see,” Harry mumbled back, clutching at the pillow. It couldn’t even look at it, but he could hear the creature shifting unhappily in front of him. Why wasn’t it Prongs? Something felt ripped in his chest, the same way it had when Nearly-Headless Nick had told him that Sirius probably wouldn’t come back as a ghost. “I was using spells that wouldn’t hurt.”

Something about what he’d said made Snape thin his lips. Harry wasn’t sure if it was the content of his words or the way he hadn’t been speaking in complete sentences. Finally, he just scowled. “Potter, what part of deadly Dark magic do you not understand? You’re lucky you didn’t manage to create a way to kill yourself.” Harry snorted, and Snape inclined his head. No, he couldn’t. Somehow, Harry couldn’t seem to die. “You are lucky to not have managed to kill me, instead, as no one else could be responsible for you. Unless you’d prefer to kill the Weasleys.”

Harry wanted desperately to be furious at that, but he couldn’t. Not while the he was still staring at that Thestral, and the terrible ripping feeling was still trying to pull him to pieces. “No, sir. Sorry.”

There was silence for a long moment, and then Snape sighed. “Cancel the spell, Potter.” Harry obeyed automatically, and the Thestral was gone. It didn’t make him feel any better, so he leaned back against where his bed met the wall and covered his face with his hands. Why couldn’t Snape go away so he could deal with this? Even those little actions made Snape snort at him. “Would you cease your dramatics? The Patronus caused no harm, and seems to still work. That is more than most who use Dark magic could say.”

Jerking his head up, never mind that his chest and eyes felt hot, Harry bared his teeth. “I didn’t want it to change. It was my Dad.”

Of course that was the wrong thing to say, because Snape crossed his arms and sneered all the wider. “Then you should be thankful. The last person you should want to be protected from was that arrogant, selfish, bullying-”

“Shut up!” The scream tore itself from Harry before he could stop himself. But he didn’t want to, anyway. He scrambled off of the bed and glared at Snape, long longer caring about the moisture collecting in his eyes. “Shut up! He was my Dad. And you know what? I don’t care what he did when he was 15! At least he didn’t kill someone, right? I thought... you know what I thought, before I came here! And I never knew him, so if I want to be proud of him, who the hell are you to tell me I shouldn’t?”

Snape’s face had gotten even paler, except for a dash of angry red across his cheeks, and even from here Harry could tell he was grinding his teeth. “He-”

“He died for me,” Harry interrupted, shoulder sagging. “He died for me and mum. I don’t think I care about anything else.” He paused, brow furrowing. “He was twenty. That’s only a few years older than me. They were young.” It was a new thought. At eleven, 20 had been so old. And he’d never given thought to it since. Parents were just older. But they had barely been out of Hogwarts.

Not that Harry was going to make it that long himself, what with the prophecy.

When Harry finally met Snape’s eyes again, he was surprised to see a similar look of surprise. Maybe it hadn’t hit him, either, since they were the same age as him.

Sighing, Harry tucked his hand into his pockets. “I don’t have anything else. Some photos from Hagrid, the cloak, and that. And I don’t like to give up the things I have. I’m not good at it.” Snape’s eyes glimmered darkly, and Harry thought that might be a thing they had in common. Odd thought, to have something in common with Snape. “I don’t want to lose it, and you could die if I get angry enough to forget, or lose control. So just leave it, okay? Until school starts. I’ll..” He grimaced, trying to think of a deal that Snape would like. “I... dunno, I won’t ask questions, or I’ll clean up around here, or whatever you want.”

It was silent for a long time after that, and Harry stared down at his ratty trainers rather than watch Snape’s expression. “I do not promise anything,” Snape finally said, voice oddly quiet. “But there is sense in that, if only to keep you from destroying more classrooms. Very well. The subject will remain closed for now.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. He hadn’t expected that to work at all, even as he’d said it. Maybe Snape really was afraid Harry would lose it. And apparently that was the end of the conversation, because Snape turned and stalked to the door. But before he stepped out, he glanced over his shoulder. “If you wish to do a better job of bargaining in the future, you would do better not to offer the things your relatives required of you. I don’t find the comparison flattering.”

Harry flinched and looked away. Oh, good, maybe Snape had decided to give up the stuff about his dad because he had a better weapon now. Being spoiled wasn’t nearly as cutting as being... whatever it was he was. Hermione liked to call it abuse, but Harry didn’t. “Yeah, well, it hasn’t been all that different here.”

That made Snape freeze, and then he scowled and slammed the door behind him. Harry was pretty sure he heard the word ‘ungrateful’ from the other side, but he didn't really care. He’d always be ungrateful, according to Snape, and it was true. Shortened meals, exhaustion and pain... Having his wand was a nice bonus, but he hadn’t even gotten any of the letters from his friends he at least got at the Dursleys’.

Sighing, Harry crawled back into bed. He didn’t fall asleep right away, mostly because he didn’t want the dreams he thought were coming after seeing the Thestral and discussing his parents.

But when Harry finally did drift off, it wasn’t the memory from the Dementors. Instead, he dreamt of being touched. Gentle, warm hands against his, or his arm, or on his cheek. 

When he woke up, Harry felt very cold.

***

The next morning, when Harry stumbled out of his room and into the kitchen, Snape was waiting with a scrap of parchment and a quill. When he sat down, Snape watching him for a long moment, until Harry gave up trying to wait him out and started to eat. Then he spoke. “What are your measurements?”

Harry choked on his pumpkin juice. “Excuse me?”

There was a hint of humor in Snape’s expression, but it was gone so quickly it might as well have never existed. “Your measurements for clothing. What are they?”

Squinting at him, Harry shrugged. “I dunno. Even if I remembered, they’d be wrong now. I keep growing.” Setting down his drink, he watched Snape right back. “Why? My robes aren’t too large, so I don’t need new ones before school starts.”

“Because,” Snape drawled. “You will not be returning to school as you are now.”

Harry froze. Somehow, he’d never thought he wouldn’t be returning. Dumbledore would find the answer, and he’d be thrown right back into the chaos of Hogwarts. “But I’m here already,” he protested, more automatic than a real objection. Snape just glared and didn’t dignify that with an answer. “What does that have to do with clothing? If Dumbledore can’t fix me, then it doesn’t matter, does it? You might as well just lock me up. Seems to be everyone’s favorite thing to do.”

Snape leaned forward, his eyes sharp. “You are still a danger to me. And you cannot leave Hogwarts grounds, so you could be a danger to anyone in the castle. We cannot expect everyone around you to constantly wear protection, as I have.” He paused to sneer. “As always, I am expected to think ahead for you, rather than take your own precautions.”

Scowling right back, Harry shrugged. “It didn’t matter before. No one but you can be near me.” But he could see the problem. In a little over a month, the students would be returning, and if Harry wanted to ever so much as leave Snape’s quarters, even just for a few moments, the chance he could brush skin with another student was too much to take. “So, you want me to get gloves or whatever?”

“More than that,” Snape replied, settling back into business. “Multiple layers. Clothing that covers your neck and closes tightly at the wrist. Pants that tuck into your boots.” He raised a brow, tone dry. “I’d suggest you brush up on your cooling charms. Hopefully you won’t give yourself frostbite.”

That was more through than Harry had been thinking. Though he should have been, right? After all, he was the potential murderer in question. “That leaves my face and head exposed. Is that worth the risk?”

Snape eyed him speculatively, putting down his quill and picking up a fork instead. “It will have to be. Anything covering your face would limit your field of vision, which is worse in the long-run. You will need to be more vigilant this year.”

“Because I could miss someone coming up out of the corner of my eye.” Harry nodded, lips pursed.

Rather than agree - or stay quiet, which was nearly the same thing - Snape pursed his lips. “Not only in that. The Dark Lord has... changed his stance. Somewhat.”

Harry froze. Someone was sharing information about Voldemort? With him? “He wants me dead-er?”

That earned him a dry, unamused look. “Just the opposite.” Sipping his drink, possibly just to make Harry have to sit patiently and wait for him to finish, Snape rested his elbows on the table and threaded his fingers together. “The Dark Lord is not willing to try and kill your directly anymore. To fail to do so, as other Death Eaters have and have been punished for, would look too bad. And he knows of how you killed your Uncle.”

Harry glared. “From you.”

Of course, Snape didn’t look at all repent. “It was an acceptable leak. He only knew a few months before the rest of the population would find out, and in convinced him to not try anything until he understood more. And it put me in a better position with him, to gain more information.” Eyeing him, almost serious instead of derisive, Snape arched a brow. “What would you have me do?”

“You could have waited,” Harry pointed out, poking at his eggs. They looked nicer this morning, and he wished the conversation would ebb so he could eat them freely. “All that would still be true in September.”

Snape snorted. “And the Dark Lord could have tried to attack you while you were out of your protections. You were only safe from the killing curse, and are you willing to chance being hit with it again?” When Harry just shrugged, Snape leaned forward, voice becoming a harsh hiss the longer he spoke. “And you would have me ignorant to the Dark Lord’s plans? So the Order and other innocents could be put at risk? Or perhaps you simply enjoy the thought of me being tortured for not having appropriate information? Just because you don’t want him knowing something slightly earlier?”

Head snapping up, Harry stared at him. “No! Fine, I get it, okay? I don’t have to like it, though.” 

Snape frowned at him, like he didn’t want to let go of his temper, even with Harry giving in. “No, you do not. But ‘liking’ it shouldn’t change anything. Do what needs to be done.” He said the last phrase like a heavy piece of wisdom, or maybe a mantra, and Harry suddenly felt like that meant something different to Snape than most people. “Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s distasteful. Even if no one else understands. It still must be done.”

Staring up at him, Harry swallowed. “Is that why you do it?”

That earned him a slow, bitter smile. “Partly. Let me ask you this - had you not interfered, and had you let the Mutt kill Pettigrew, would the Dark Lord have come back as soon as he did?” Snape spread his hands and leaned back in his chair, dark eyes still locked onto Harry. “Sometimes, a death, for whatever reason, is the better decision. Killing a Death Eater before they can harm others, or to kill a begging, innocent man under the Dark Lord’s watching eyes, so that he will trust me more. It is better if those people die, because someone needs to do it. And I would suggest you accept that as quickly as possible. After all, Potter, you will need to kill. It is, quite simply, what you are for.”

Harry stayed silent. He just didn’t have a response for that. The parts of him that were very Gryffindor wanted to rail against that. He wanted to protect everyone. He didn’t want to kill, didn’t want to be a weapon, and he knew several members of the Order who would disagree with Snape. Dumbledore might not agree either, but he was also the one who sent Snape out to do this work, so he was aware and encouraged it. And Harry wasn’t even sure how he felt about Dumbledore anymore.

There was some sense to that philosophy, much as he hated to admit it. Harry didn’t feel like he had to agree on the spot. He had the right to muse over that, and to pick out what parts rang true, and what didn’t. That it was coming from Snape, who had so many justifications for doing nasty things he didn’t need to, soured it somewhat. But there could be something there.

Finally, it was Snape who broke the thoughtful silence. “Regardless, we have gotten sidetracked. Multiple times. The Dark Lord does not wish to kill you. He wishes to keep you, however he can. And there are rumors he has agents among the students at Hogwarts who are assigned to find ways to convince you to come to him.”

Harry scowled. “Malfoy?”

“Likely,” Snape agreed lightly. “Or others. Don’t assume there is only one, and do not assume they are only in Slytherin. But Mr. Malfoy is a likely candidate, since his family will need to be redeemed from Lucius’ failure to retrieve the prophecy.” Digging into his eggs, Snape tapped the parchment. “Which brings us back to the need to get you new clothing. We’ll get your measurements after breakfast, and then send away for them.”

Nodding, Harry dug into his eggs. The second he tasted them, he paused, brow furrowing. They tasted strange. Was this a new recipe? But they seemed the same as ever. He glanced around the room, and spotted Snape watching him, gaze very dark and lips very near a smirk.

Oh, for the love of-

Harry grabbed a napkin and spat out the eggs, wiping off his tongue. “Really?”

“I did tell you that you would come to recognize when your food has been tampered with,” Snape replied. “It would not have done anything worse than give you an upset stomach, do not look so wounded.”

Harry scowled. “You tried to poison my eggs. I’ll look wounded if I want.” Sighing, he gestured at the toast and juice. “Did you tamper with anything else, or should I give up on eating this morning?”

Of course he only got a smirk, and Harry nibbled lightly on his toast. It tasted fine. After a few moments, he sighed and buttered it, then ate that.

The potion in the butter left him with a horribly runny nose for the rest of the morning, and no amount of sniffling and complaining made Snape give him the antidote.

***

The room Harry had destroyed had been turned into a makeshift duelling area, or perhaps more accurately, a fortified chamber. Harry looked at the cage of clamouring rats on the floor by Snape’s feet and then back up at the professor, mouth dry.

“You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack. If you’ll mind the expression.”

Harry snorted, but the sound came out weak rather than amused and he rubbed his tongue over the roof of his mouth, desperate to try and gain moisture and unclench the tightness in his throat. “Don’t you think Dumbledore will be mad?”

Rolling his eyes, Snape calmly levelled his gaze at Harry, mouth pressed into a grim sort of smile. “I doubt he will. After all, he placed you under my tutelage for a reason. He needn’t be bothered. Now, if you’re quite done with your questions and stalling, we have work to do.”

Frowning, Harry crossed his arms stubbornly. “I’ve tried. I used the Cruciatus in the Ministry on Bellatrix. It didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t. Even that fool, sham of a Moody you had teaching you taught you that there needs to be intent. Even with all the Darkness coursing through you, I doubt it would fully manifest.”

Gritting his teeth, Harry narrowed his eyes up at Snape. “I think ‘you killed the last family who cared for me’ is intent enough.”

Snape smirked, the expression odd. “Clearly not.” He glanced down at the cage of rats. “Besides, I think a dislike of rodents would be higher on your list.”

Opening his mouth to argue, Harry instead huffed and gave a jerky nod to concede the point. “Doesn’t mean I want to hurt innocent rats.”

“Would you prefer I told you that they were evil? Does that help? Because I am not here to cater or coddle you. This is a war and you are a weapon, whether you like or not. Now, you can continue to stand there like a belligerent infant and waste my time, or this can be dealt with in a mature manner.”

Unable to help himself, Harry scowled right back. Snape was such an arse. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Finally, a bit of sense.” With a flick of his wand, the latch on the cage snapped open and the door swung up, setting the rats loose.

Harry took an automatic step back at the flood of rats that took off through the room making awful scraping noises and high pitched squeaks that set his nerves on edge. One of them made a line for his pant leg and he shook it off anxiously and sent a look toward Snape.

“Well?” Snape was watching him right back, arms folded across his chest, paying no mind to the rabble.

Mouth falling open, Harry looked around the room again, unable to believe the fact that Snape wasn’t giving him any sort of guidance. He would have thought Snape would have loved to gloat and lord over him in a situation like this. Screwing his mouth up, Harry took a firm hold of his wand and swallowed thickly, focusing his anger into a ball in his chest. He tried to think of it as the reverse of a Patronus, thinking of the worst, most hateful things he could…

“Avada Kedavra.” The words felt awful in his mouth. The anger inside of him writhed like a living thing. 

Nothing.

“That was it?” 

Snape’s voice cut through him like a knife and Harry turned to look at the teacher, who was looking at him, then his wand, then the pack of rats in the corner who were still climbing over one another. “That was pathetic. Did you even try? You can’t just say it. You have to mean it.” Pointing his wand toward a rat that was trying to nest in his cloak, Snape calmly pronounced the Killing Curse and with a quick, brilliant flash of light the rat was dead and Snape pushed it away from himself with his foot. “It’s a wonder you can cast any magic at all if you’re just haphazardly saying the incantation.”

“I’m trying, alright?” 

“No. You aren’t and that’s the problem. If you can’t focus, if you can’t get control of yourself and your magic you won’t be doing much of anything this year.”

Harry blinked owlishly. “What?”

“If you aren’t fit to cast a spell, you won’t be attending any classes.”

“You can’t do that! Dumbledore won’t let you!”

“The Headmaster is the one who informed me of it.”

Harry’s knees felt weak. He stared blankly at Snape and let out a low noise. “So, that’s it then? I’m just trapped here forever?”

Scoffing, Snape pressed his mouth together, watching Harry with a dry expression. “You needn’t be so dramatic. You are just as capable of this as any other student. You merely need to put in the actual effort.”

“Thanks. I guess.” Harry looked over at the dead rat and then back toward Snape. “You really think I can do this?”

“What did I say about coddling? All you need to do is develop control. I have no doubt such a thing is difficult for you, but it must be done. The control - the focus - will allow you to more accurately cast your magic and do so without causing unwanted harm. Unless, of course, that harm is what you intend, as should be the case here. You should be capable of some forms of control, otherwise you would not have made it this far in your schooling, but the control you will need now is absolute. Without it, well… You already know what can happen. I doubt anyone has ever asked this of the Chosen One, or whatever they call you in the papers these days, but it is what I, and the Wizarding World at large, require of you now.” 

Harry nodded slowly, mind turning over the information. He could do this. He needed to. Maybe the reason Snape was teaching him the Unforgivables was because they were so dangerous and required so much of the control he was talking about. The thought was strangely comforting, in a macabre way, but also sad. If he needed all of this control. If Dumbledore said he did… It meant the idea of a cure was gone.

He really was going to be like this forever, wasn’t he?

Taking in a breath, Harry looked toward Snape and raised his wand. “Alright, let’s try this again.”


End file.
